


The Next World

by CaroltheQueen (kataurah), Miss_Peletier



Category: The 100 (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/CaroltheQueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Peletier/pseuds/Miss_Peletier
Summary: It's been nearly two years since the dead started rising and walking the earth, and since then Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane have done all they can just to survive and protect their group. Arriving at the Arkadia Safe Zone, they thought they had finally found safety. But these days, the living are to be feared more than the dead. And the living will take everything you have.





	1. Chapter 1

Abby heard Raven’s declaration through the open window, her yell carried by the early summer air. It was a light breeze that brushed its warm lips against her skin every time she stepped into the living room of the two-story home that served as a makeshift doctor’s office, a gentle thing that lit her tanned skin with gold each time she passed by.

  
As beautiful as it was, she found herself almost skeptical. Maybe, she thought, she was just hearing what she wanted to hear. Or rather, maybe that soft wind was wont to whisper sweet lies, trying to temper the bitterness of the world with words that would make things – even slightly – less harsh, less grating, less exhausting.

  
She wanted to believe it, but it wasn’t until she heard it a second time that she allowed herself to accept the girl’s words – yelled from the guard tower on the outskirts of the safe zone – as credible.

  
“They’re back!” Raven yelled. “They’re _back_!”

  
They’d been gone too long, Abby thought. They had to all be thinking it, each of the survivors that jogged down the street toward the front gate. They’d been gone too damn long – they were supposed to be back yesterday, god damn it – and though she’d felt some tension drain from her at those words, it was replaced by the realization that despite what she truly wanted to believe, everything might not be fine. Going out beyond the gates was like flipping a coin, lives hinging on heads or tails.

  
_What if he didn’t come back?_

  
She wouldn’t let herself go there.

  
He was fine. There was no way a man as skilled and meticulous as Marcus Kane wouldn’t come back from something as routine as a supply run. And although the stakes had been heightened – after all, they weren’t going to be able to hold off the walkers without ammunition – she had faith in his capabilities. He was nothing if not logical.

  
“They’re back?” a voice said, sounding every bit as stunned as Abby felt, and her transition back into the real world from the swirling universe of her thoughts was jarring enough to make her jump.

  
As if beckoned to her side by the sound of Raven’s voice, Jackson appeared at her side. Abby looked over at her assistant, making note of the worried crease in his brow, the fear in his eyes that always formed when he thought about the world beyond the walls. Eric Jackson was meant for a time beyond the outbreak, when humanity triumphed and walkers were long forgotten.

  
Unfortunately, he was trapped here – trapped in a world he’d never understand, in a time and place that sat, a constant heavy weight, on his shoulders. It wasn’t that she’d adapted, necessarily – if given the choice, she’d choose to stay inside the walls and help their people in every way she could – but if push came to shove, she could go on runs. She’d done it before, done it on an almost daily basis in the dark days before they’d found the safe zone and been accepted by Roan and his people. Jackson, on the other hand…she could never see him taking a single step beyond Arkadia’s borders.

  
“According to Raven,” Abby said, feeling the warmth of hope combining with the soft glow of sunlight to glimmer deep inside her. “It seems that way.”

  
“That’s good,” Jackson said, sounding truly relieved. Abby knew he was relieved about more than just the promise of ammunition: Nate Miller, his longtime boyfriend, had been on the team. As concerned as she’d been about a certain member of the group beyond the walls, Jackson had been equally worried about another. “Raven would have told us if they weren’t okay, right?”

  
Abby frowned, still peering out their window. There was only one way to find out.

  
“Can you handle this for a few minutes?” she asked. “I should probably be there, just in case…”

  
“In case someone needs your help,” a third voice finished, and both doctor and assistant looked toward the doorway to find the source. Lincoln Grounder stared back at them, his brown eyes warm.

  
“I know I’m not a doctor,” he said, “but I can take care of this until you get back. You should both go.”

  
“You don’t want to go?” Abby asked, moving toward her second assistant, determined to figure out if this was a byproduct of his continued selflessness or a genuine offer. Octavia hadn’t been on the team, but typically, Lincoln was one of the first to arrive when supply runners returned. Despite his history as a medical student, his physique made him good for heavy lifting; and more often than not, teams returned with items they couldn’t quite carry one at a time.

  
“You can tell me if everyone’s all right,” Lincoln said. “I’ll be fine here.”

  
Abby hesitated. They didn’t have many patients – Monty Green had gotten a broken ankle after trying to climb over the wall, but that was the worst of it. A quiet day. If Lincoln wanted, he could probably accompany them.

  
“Abby, we should leave,” Jackson said, undoubtedly thinking of Nathan. “Half of Arkadia is there already.”

  
Abby opened her mouth to say something else – to try to convince Lincoln that if his heart was at the gates, he shouldn’t bother trying to find it in their “office” – but he was quicker.

  
“Go, Abby,” he said with a nod. “Kane might need you.” _Kane might…what?_

  
She and Marcus were certainly close, but given their circumstances – the way this world had a nasty habit of ripping away the things one cared for most deeply – they’d never been more than friends, despite the way her stomach lurched when she thought about the possibility of him not returning from that run. Was there an assumption among the kids to the contrary? Did they think…?

  
Stunned, the word was out before she could stop it.

  
“What?”

  
Lincoln raised an eyebrow, puzzled by her lack of understanding.

  
“I said they might need you,” Lincoln repeated slowly. “Abby, are you-“

  
Abby relaxed, though some small part of her – a part she’d swallow down and locked behind steel doors – felt something akin to disappointment.

  
“Right,” she blurted, unwilling to answer the question that was all but certain to follow. “That’s what I thought you said,” she said in a rush, although her assistant appeared unconvinced.

  
Now that someone had almost uttered that fateful syllable, she was finding it much harder to keep herself rooted to their medical duties. He really might need her help, but instead she was arguing with her assistant who clearly didn’t want to join them. Time was too valuable a thing to waste, to leave withering in the sun.

  
“Abby?” Jackson said, and she turned to him with newfound determination. Grabbing a hair tie from around her wrist and pulling her hair into a ponytail, she shed her denim doctor’s jacket and made her way toward the door to the outside world.

  
“I’ll let you know what’s going on,” Abby said, giving Lincoln a small smile – a smile woven through with a nervousness her optimism couldn’t quite curb. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

  
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now go, Abby.”

  
Giving him one last nod, she stepped out into the sunlight and closed the door behind her.

  
Jackson waited halfway down the porch steps, unwilling to continue without her.

  
“Ready?” he asked, and she answered him by continuing to move. It didn’t matter whether she was ready or not – she had to go where she was needed. And if she was needed by any of the returned team from the supply run, that was where she would go.

  
They half-jogged, half-ran to the front gate, a towering thing made of scrap metal that had been built around the subdivision when the outbreak first began. Roan’s mother, Nia, had been a brilliant (if ruthless) politician, and his father, an engineer. Arkadia was always meant to withstand the harsh realities of the apocalypse, even with the two of them gone and Roan as the head of the community.

  
When they arrived, a discussion was already in full swing between Clarke and Bellamy – apparently, Roan had sent her to keep the peace and stayed behind himself. The assembled crowd was too dense for Abby to get a good look at the group who had returned, but their voices – or rather, the irritation in them – was distinct.

  
“Did you get anything?” she heard Clarke ask, and through the crowd she glimpsed Bellamy give her a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  
“You were out there for days,” she said. “What were you _doing_ for all that time?”

  
“Maybe you should try going out there, Princess,” Bellamy retorted, and it was Abby’s turn to grit her teeth. While she knew the nickname was all in good fun, under circumstances like this…the implication behind it stung. “It’s not pretty,” Bellamy finished, eyes flashing, clearly resenting her skepticism.

  
“I know,” Clarke said. “I was out there before, just like you.”

  
“Do you think you could do a better job than we did?” Bellamy retorted, and Abby watched as Clarke slowly shook her head. “There’s nothing out there, Clarke. Everything’s already scavenged. Warehouses, stores, damn houses…there’s nothing left in them.”

  
“There has to be something we can do,” Clarke said. “Somewhere else we can look.”

  
“We were going to try for one last place,” Bellamy said, eyeing Abby nervously. “An old factory. But…we had to get Kane back here.”

  
At that Abby parted the last of the assembled crowd, finally at the epicenter of the group. She saw Clarke and Bellamy standing close to each other, scowling, Clarke’s expression softening when her mother approached. At Bellamy’s mention of Marcus, her blue eyes shimmered.

  
“What happened to Kane?” she said, her voice low. Her daughter had asked the question Abby couldn’t, forcing her heart to have hope while her mind rebelled. He could only be lucky so many times, it insisted. There were only so many things he could survive, so many close calls he could endure. What if this….what if this had been…

  
Abby swallowed hard, striding toward the duo, determined. Scanning the area, she saw Nathan Miller embracing Jackson, Harper McIntyre safe in Monty Green’s arms. But she found it devoid of the one person she was looking for – his face was nowhere in the crowd, nor did she see anyone sitting in the back of the dented vehicle they’d returned in.

  
“Where’s Marcus?” Abby asked, staring at Bellamy. The boy shifted a little in the sunlight, looking down at her with regret in his eyes.

  
“He’s talking to Raven,” Bellamy said. “But you need to get him back to your place before he gets an infection.”

  
“What are you talking about?” Clarke interjected, appearing as equally worried as her mother, eyebrows drawn together in a firm line. “An infection?”

  
Bellamy sighed. “It’s not true that we came back empty-handed,” he said. “Kane managed to grab a couple of guns from a shop we found in the city. But there was a herd coming, and we couldn’t get out the front door. He broke open the windows with the end of the rifle, but Miller got stuck. Walkers were coming. He was pulling him through the window when…”

He avoided eye contact with Abby, instead choosing to focus on Clarke. “Kane saved Miller, but he cut his arm on the glass when he pulled him through,” he finished.  
“He wouldn’t admit it, but it’s pretty bad. Kane’s going to need stitches, and maybe antibiotics. If we have any. I tried to get him to see you first, but he said he needed to get the guns to Raven.”

_Of course._

  
Only Marcus Kane would insist on finishing the mission before thinking of himself, even when he ran the risk of a nasty – perhaps even _fatal_ – infection if she didn’t treat his wound.  
Most in Arkadia would have found it honorable, what he was doing, if a little idiotic.

  
Abby was practically seeing red.

  
Didn’t he know that if he sacrificed himself now, there would be no more foolishly heroic gestures for him to perform? Didn’t he know that if he didn’t see her and get help, this was something that might claim his life? Didn’t he know that if he neglected his body’s warnings, if he wore himself down and couldn’t recover, if he _died_ …a part of her would die with him?

  
“Take me to him,” Abby snapped, her jaw clenched. “Bellamy, _now_.”

  
He and Clarke exchanged cryptic glances, and with a promise to talk to her later, Bellamy motioned for Abby to follow him back into the heart of the safe zone. He walked quickly, his strides long, and Abby nearly had to jog to keep up with him.

  
“How long ago did this happen?” Abby asked.

  
“A half-hour ago. Maybe a little more,” Bellamy responded. “We wrapped his arm and took him back here as soon as we could, but we had to fight to get back to the car. He was fine when we got back, but I didn’t want to-“

  
“You didn’t want him to get worse,” Abby said, and Bellamy nodded.

  
Abby was reminded as they proceeded toward the armory that she wasn’t the only one who cared deeply about Marcus Kane’s fate. Bellamy and his sister had been with him from the beginning, saved from a herd by his quick thinking and kindness. He and Bellamy shared many of the same character traits: a penchant for self-sacrifice, a deep attachment to those they loved, a keen sense of guilt over wrongs they’d never be able to make right. And thus, an attachment had formed.

  
“We’re here,” Bellamy announced, as though Abby couldn’t tell they were standing directly in front of the house that served as the armory. “Raven and Kane went here with the guns we found.”

  
Abby gritted her teeth, anticipating the less-than-pleasant conversation she’d soon be having with her closest friend, most beloved confidant, and _complete idiot._

  
“Thank you, Bellamy,” she said with a small smile, a gesture that promised the boy everything would be all right. He offered her the same expression, then turned around - she guessed to return to Clarke and Roan.

  
_Here goes nothing,_ she thought.

* * *

“I’m giving you the last of the Penicillin,” Abby said, but Marcus shook his head, frowning. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Save that for someone who needs it.”

  
“ _You’re_ someone who needs it,” Abby insisted. “Marcus, I’m not risking you getting an infection.”

  
He smiled, and Abby – in spite of her horrible mood – waged war against an urge to smile back. Something about that quirk of his lips, the good-natured glint in his soil-brown eyes, made it impossible for the fire of her temper to keep burning.

  
They’d been here for a little over two hours - the gash in his arm had required stitches, which required a needle, and Marcus Kane hated _needles_. There had been some protest over whether stitches were truly required - “I think it’ll just get better on its own, Abby, I don’t need that,” - and only after describing to him what might happen if he didn’t let her do her job did he allow her in anything resembling close proximity to his skin with the pointy piece of metal.

  
“Why are you smiling?” Abby asked, breaking eye contact before her lips acted without the consent of her brain. Now was not a time for smiles, not the time for the hushed, quiet conversations they typically had when all of Arkadia was sleeping.

  
Now was a time for exasperation, for lecturing, for shoving medicine into his hands and shoving him out the door. As to not be tempted by his baffling good humor, she turned away and gathered her medical supplies on her tray. It would be easier to resist if she could pretend he wasn’t here.

  
“We found guns, Abby,” he said softly, his eyes shining in the flickering candlelight. “Not many, but it’s better than nothing. And if those were out there, we can find more.”

  
Abby turned back to him, appalled. She’d spent the last hour stitching up his wound and treating it for infection, and he was already thinking about the next time he could go out beyond the walls.

  
“’We’ isn’t happening,” she said, feeling as though she were lecturing a particularly insistent child. “Do you know how serious that cut could have been, Marcus? What would’ve happened if you didn’t get treatment?”

  
He opened his mouth to say something, but she wasn’t finished.

  
“You’re not going on any runs until you’ve healed.”

  
“There are other groups out there,” Marcus said, frowning. “People who aren’t going to wait for this-“ he pointed to the newly-stitched cut on his arm – “to heal. We have to move quickly, before they do.”

  
“There are plenty of people who would gladly take your spot on the supply run team,” Abby persisted. “Lincoln’s my assistant, but I think he’s wanted to go for a while. If it’ll keep you inside the walls, I’ll let him.”

  
Apparently realizing the truth in her statement, Abby watched as Marcus’ face fell. The glimmer in his brown eyes faded, and his shoulders slumped a fraction as he leaned back a little against the worn cot.

  
Seeing him like this – defeated – made her chest ache. The laceration on his arm must hurt, she knew, but this was a pain caused by something deeper, something no shard of glass could touch. A pang of guilt echoed through her, silenced by duty - she had to keep him inside Arkadia. He’d be of no use to anyone if he went back out before he was ready, and on some level, he himself had to know that.

  
Abby made her way back toward her stubborn, heartbroken patient, leaving her tray of tools behind to stand in front of him. Without fully realizing what she was doing, she reached out and slipped her hand into his – a gesture of comfort, of caring, of hoping he’d realize he wasn’t alone in his suffering.

  
“You can’t protect them forever,” she said, the warmth of his skin radiating through her, relaxing her, an addicting intoxication that belonged to him alone. “They’re not kids anymore, Marcus.”

  
He stared up at her with haunted eyes, his hand shaking in hers.

  
“I know,” he said, holding her fingers as though they were his only tie to humanity in their cruel, heartless world. “They’ve proved that so many times. But I can’t-“

_I can’t lose them._

  
And how many times had she thought the same thing? How many times had that same thought resonated with her, when she saw Clarke walking through Arkadia with Bellamy and Roan at her side? Marcus loved Bellamy and Octavia just as she loved her daughter, and Abby knew how much it would pain him to leave them unaccompanied when they stepped outside of safety.

  
Lost for words, Abby could only keep holding his hand, feeling the rest of the world go quiet around them. He stared at her with a mixture of grief and guilt, a cocktail his gaze had perfected long ago. She knew he’d returned to a time not long before this one, to a decision that would haunt them both until the end of their days. It had been the right choice – of that much, she was confident – but neither of them would find peace with it as long as their hearts were still beating.

  
“You’re right,” Marcus sighed, slowly relinquishing his grip. Abby couldn’t help but think she felt oddly empty without him, that energy withering as the electricity of his touch receded, and part of her wanted to reach out and clasp his hand again. “I don’t want to be the reason one of the kids gets hurt. I don’t want to be like-“

  
“Hey,” Abby said, the hurt in his voice too much to bear. She had to stop his thoughts from wandering down this path, had to put a stop to their procession before they reached a checkpoint she couldn’t cross. “You’re not. You’ll never end up like him, Marcus. You could never do what he did.”

  
Marcus stared at her blankly, and she realized it would take more than words to bring him back to the time they lived in, to rip him from the past and deposit him in a present that was only slightly more bearable. But because it was too lonely for her to be here without him, she did the only thing she could think of to do.

  
Abby leaned in and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek, moving her hands to cup the sides of his face. His beard was scratchy against the side of her mouth, but not unpleasantly so, and as she leaned away and trailed her fingers down his jawline she was overwhelmed by a sensation of longing, a physical ache she felt frustratingly often when she was near him. He tasted of smoke and ruin, and paradoxically, of sweetness and solace.

  
They had to keep their walls up, she knew, if only to prevent the world from ruining them both. But sometimes…sometimes, she let certain of her emotions slip through the cracks.

  
“What was that?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. He sounded breathless, as though the contact of her lips on his skin had punched him in the chest, stolen the air from his lungs. At any rate, he had returned to her now, here, he was fighting. Trying. That, alone, was enough.

  
Abby didn’t hesitate, having had the words on the tip of her tongue long before she ever kissed Marcus Kane.

  
“Let’s call it hope.”

  
_Two Weeks After The Turn_  
  
_Pounding of cold hands against the side of the tank coupled with the faint sounds of snarls just beyond the metal, and Marcus Kane, ears ringing from the explosion of a gunshot he never should have fired, steeled his nerves and waited for death._

  
_Waking up to the world around him had often been an exhausting task, even on the best of days. Politics was a never-ending spiral of fickle public approval, a cycle that drained him and numbed him until alcohol was the only thing able to bring something close to sensation back to his body. But waking up to a dead world, a world controlled by flesh-eating monsters, was more than tiring: it was disorienting, dark, and by all accounts, terrifying._

  
_This was a future he could not plan, he could not map out, he could not predict with polls and numbers and data. There were no charts to determine the survivability of the apocalypse, and considering he now found himself sealed on the inside of an army tank in the middle of the city – a failed final attempt to restore order, he assumed – he wasn’t exactly predicting sky high numbers concerning his likelihood of making it through the day._

  
_He felt something now, something blooming in his chest, something foreign and strange that he wished he could rip out and throw to the rotting beasts surrounding his temporary shelter._

  
_Fear._

  
_He’d woken up in a hospital with no way to determine how much time had passed. The wound on his chest was wrapped, but the bandages had yellowed. The flowers on his bedside table had wilted, crumbled in his hands. The bag in his IV had long run dry._

  
_Wherever the asshole was who had shot him during his speech, he hoped he was among the dead. But how ironic, Marcus thought, if he were? If he were one of the ones clawing at the metal that separated them, put safety between living and dead? If he might, in the end, succeed where that gunshot had failed?_

  
_No, Marcus thought. He would not let that despicable low-life - or anyone else, for that matter – decide his fate for him._

  
_There were still bullets left in his gun. Not enough to fight his way back out in the epicenter of a herd, but enough to get the job done. After all, he really only needed one._

  
_The heat of summer had made the metal warm to the touch, but not uncomfortably so. It was probably the best death he could hope for, given the circumstances – a quick, painless end in a military vehicle with the growling of the undead whispering around him. He told himself he had two choices, and with the pistol to his head, he decided which option was best._

  
_This, he thought, would be the time to make a profound statement. To use his final words as a goodbye to someone. But the only person he cared about was long gone. Thankfully, Vera Kane had passed away before the end of the world, and with her absence, his own world had ended long ago. Her kind soul would not have withstood the horrors he’d witnessed when he escaped the fallen hospital, the disgusting appearance – and smell – of the living dead. Though he never would have wished for her passing, it was a blessing she had not lived to see the world descend into this._

  
_With her gone, he had no one alive to whisper a last word of adoration. He had no wife, no children, to whom he’d declare his eternal love and wait for in the afterlife. If he died here, in this tank, his name would fade off the tongues of his constituents…he was already obsolete, a relic of a time long past, a man in a suit lost in a world that required armor._

  
_Trapped with no way out, his only companion was the gun in his hand. Words had been such a central focus in his life before the turn – they could make or break a policy, a vote, an election – but now, at the end, they failed him. So, with snarls echoing around him like the dripping of water in a cave, he decided it was high time to do what needed to be done._

  
_“Damn it all to hell,” he whispered, raising the weapon to his temple, finger pressing lightly against the cool metal of the trigger._

  
_In an instant, it would all be over._

  
_And in an instant, static rushed over the radio._

  
_At first, Marcus could hardly believe it was real. Convinced it was nothing more than a survival instinct, he paused with the gun to his head, waiting for fantasy to fade and reality to return. But the static grew louder, more pronounced, and even when he removed the gun, it roared._

  
_Who the hell was radioing him in the middle of the city?_

  
_Realizing there was no time to waste, he crawled over to the device. It screamed with white noise, erupted with the promise of a future that did not involve this tank or grotesque dismemberment at the hands of the undead. The noise clicked on a light in the unending darkness of the new world, gave him something he’d been lacking since he stumbled down the steps of the hospital and out into what certainly must have been Hell._

  
_Hope._

  
_Fumbling with the controls, Marcus turned dials and pressed buttons until the noise became clearer. It didn’t take long – a few seconds, at most – but sweat made the controls slick, and it was a miracle he managed to develop a clear sound at all._

  
_When the radio spoke, it was a girl’s voice._

  
_“Hey dumbass,” it said, a smirk shining through even despite the feeble connection. “Yeah, you. In the tank. You cozy in there?”_

  
_Marcus stared at the radio for a few seconds more, heart racing, brain racing to unscramble the equation placed before him. It was as though the English language had become impossible to understand, and he was only snapped out of his daze when the girl spoke again._

  
_“You alive in there?”_

  
_Marcus brought the radio to his lips, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down his brow._

  
_“Hello? Where are you, outside? Can you see me right now?”_

  
_“Yeah. You’re surrounded by walkers. That’s the bad news.”_

  
_Marcus cringed. “There’s good news?”_

  
_The girl paused. “No.”_

  
_Marcus swallowed hard – when he’d considered the very slim possibility of being rescued by an anonymous savior over the radio, he hadn’t pondered the flip side of that coin: that the person might only be radioing in to mock him._

  
_“Listen, whoever you are,” he snapped. “I don’t mind telling you I’m a little concerned in here.”_

  
_“Oh man, you should see from over here. You’d be having a major freak out.” In spite of it all, Marcus rolled his eyes. Just his luck._

  
_“Got any advice for me?” he asked, his tone sharp._

  
_“I’d say, make a run for it.”_

  
_A few seconds of quiet, in which Marcus wondered if the girl had gone. Perhaps, he thought, he’d been a little too biting. But with so little to go on, what had she expected?_

  
_“That’s it?” he said, as much to determine if she was still there as to discern the true danger inherent in his situation. “Make a run for it?”_

  
_“It might not be as stupid as it sounds,” the girl countered, and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. “There’s a few still on the tank, but the rest have climbed down. Guess you weren’t keeping their interest. If you move now, you might be able to make it through. You got ammo?”_

  
_“Hold on,” Marcus said, checking his gun. He had fifteen rounds – just enough to convince him this might not be as insane of an idea as it had first seemed. “I have a gun,” he said into the radio. “Fifteen rounds.”_

  
_“Make them count,” the girl said. “When you get out of the tank, turn right. There’s an alley with a wire fence maybe…fifty yards up the street, and I’m on the other side. Haul ass, and get here.”_

  
_Marcus nodded, hesitating for a moment. If this girl was the last human he ever had a conversation with, he at least wanted to know something else about her._

  
_“What’s your name?” he asked._

  
_“Are you fucking kidding?” the girl said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You have a few minutes to get out of there! Go!”_

  
_And with that, the radio went quiet._

  
_Crawling back over to the hatch, Marcus hesitated for a moment with his hand on the door. This would be it – either his salvation, or his doom. Either way, it would take everything he had. Survival wouldn’t be easy, and if he made it, it would only get harder._

  
_But when had things ever been easy? When had his life ever been fulfilling, worthwhile, painless? The flesh-eating walkers excepted, today was just another day at the office._

  
_Shoving open the hatch, he took a deep breath and climbed out into the searing sunlight._

_Turn right and keep going down the street. An alley with a wire fence._

  
_His first shot was used on a man in a tattered red sweatshirt, the logo impossible to read under the grime and dirt it had accumulated. It rang true, finding the brain as the walker reached for him, and Marcus jumped to the ground as the walker fell, landing with a thump in a sea of his companions._

  
_The sound made him less inconspicuous to that first walker’s comrades, and, heart racing, he began to run down the street toward where the girl had directed him._

  
_His second shot was used on a woman in a yellow dress that was more strips of fabric than material, her skin marred by scrapes and missing in patches, revealing bone underneath. She hissed at him as he bounded down the street he’d driven to the Capitol each day, and he pulled the trigger as she blocked his path._

  
_The moans were getting louder, amplifying as he darted through the crowd of lumbering beasts intending to claim him as their next meal. Shots three, four, five and six were fired in rapid succession as he battled his way toward the sidewalk, straining his eyes for a glimpse at that hallowed wire fence. More than anything, he yearned for the shining of metal._

  
_Sweat slipped into his eyes, but he couldn’t raise his hands to wipe his forehead clean. His lungs burned and his limbs ached, but stopping wasn’t an option. Spit lodged itself in his dry throat, and he could barely breathe as it scraped its way down. If these people had supplies, he decided it would do him well to bargain for some-_

  
_A hiss sounded from behind him – too damn close – and he squeezed the trigger, felling what looked to be a teenager in a fast-food worker’s uniform. His eyes, long glazed over with the clutches of disease, closed as the bullet found its target._

  
_Stopping to take care of the worker walker had been a less-than novel idea, he realized. More were summoned by the commotion, stumbling toward him as he froze in the middle of the street. He squeezed the trigger, took a step forward, squeezed, stepped, squeezed. Each bullet seemed to only gain him a foot or two, and that pattern of procession would not be enough to bring him toward the girl on the radio._

  
_The sound of his heartbeat was loud in his ears, the sound of his blood rushing through him deafening as though he were standing at the foot of a waterfall. He pulled one last time and a woman – middle-aged, with skin hanging loosely from the side of her face where it had been torn away and exposed the muscle beneath - collapsed to the ground._

  
_There it was: an opening._

  
_With no time to waste, Marcus sprinted for the gap. At least he was making forward progress. Whether this brought him any closer to the alley, he couldn’t be sure, but one thing at a time. This development would have to do._

  
_Then, another stroke of luck. When he glanced to his right, on the other side of the street, it beckoned him with gleaming silver._

  
_The alley._

  
_A few more gunshots brought him to the other side, and, gun raised, he slammed into the fence with the small amount of might he had left. From the shadows, he heard the radioer's voice_

 _._  
_“Whoa! Whoa! Not dead!”_

  
_Then, the voice emerged, throwing open the fence and slamming it behind them._

  
_Wearing a red baseball cap, and dark jeans, her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the girl before him was younger than he’d imagined. Marcus wouldn’t have placed her at any older than eighteen, but here she was, surviving the city better than he ever could._

  
_Though he hadn’t appreciated her attitude, he had to respect that._

  
_“Come on!” she shouted, ushering him away from the fence. The frail metal would be no match for the walkers, and they leaned against it, shoving it, twisting it under their combined weight. It wouldn’t last any more than a minute. “We gotta go!”_

  
_Marcus followed her deeper into the alley without question, noticing she ran with a slight limp. She was still faster than him. Undoubtedly, if he’d known the world was going to end, he would’ve made good on the gym membership he’d been ignoring in favor of policy changes to the city’s taxi system._

  
_Thirty seconds of sprinting later, they arrived at a ladder that led them to the top of a building. But the walkers were closing in now, growling at their heels, no less than twenty feet away. Though he’d emptied his gun in the process of making it here, Marcus felt his fingers curl around his weapon._

  
_“Climb,” the girl ordered, jumping on the ladder and pulling herself up._

  
_It took her five seconds to summit the first few rungs, and the walkers were less than ten feet away now. The smell of rot infected his nostrils, and Marcus threw himself at the slippery, chipped metal of the ladder, his gateway to salvation._

  
_“Come on!” the girl yelled from above him._

  
_The walkers were close enough for him to glimpse the grey tint to their eyes, to see the yellow burrowed in their fingernails. Yanking himself up, he stepped onto the bottom rung and pulled with every ounce of his limited strength. Pulling and stepping until he reached the top, he forced himself not to look down._

  
_The railing was a welcome, sturdy sight, and when he reached it, he leaned on its heated surface and held his head in his hands. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t want to appear weak, but…these circumstances were anything but normal._

  
_The girl, next to him, seemed to also be catching her breath. After a few moments of recuperating silence, she turned to him and spoke._

  
_“Nice moves, Clint Eastwood,” she said, sarcasm infused in every word._

  
_Marcus, half-faint with exhaustion, had to breathe a laugh. The whole situation was so unreal; here he was, on top of a building with a teenager who saved his life from living dead, because he woke up in a hospital two weeks after slipping into a coma after an assassination attempt. If someone had told him three weeks ago that this was his future, he would have told them they were insane._

  
_Perhaps, he thought, that was what this was. An insane world._

  
_“Thanks,” he breathed, and the girl snorted._

  
_“I’m Raven, by the way,” she said, sticking a hand out in his direction. “Since you wanted to know.”_

  
_Marcus reached out and clasped it, giving it a firm shake._

  
_“I’m Marcus Kane,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”_

  
_Raven smirked. “Of course it is,” she said. “I’m awesome.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accompanying art work for this chapter can be found here: http://skaihefamarcus.tumblr.com/post/163116179609/this-is-my-first-art-entry-for-the-kabby-big-bangq


	2. Chapter 2

Marcus was aware he lingered around medical longer than was strictly necessary. The air between them had felt thick and heavy with meaning when Abby's lips had brushed his skin, like they were standing on the precipice of something, but it dispersed as he went about casually helping her tidy around her working space and they fell back into easy conversation now that she was no longer angry with him. He did, however, still need to talk to Clarke about their less than lucrative supply run and the continued ammunition problem. Abby gave him a soft smile and squeezed his arm as he bid her good night, in case he didn't see her later, and he made his way over to the house she shared with her daughter.   
  
The sun had almost set, so there were very few people milling around Arkadia; the end of the world had instilled a fear in most people of being out after dark, even with the sturdy walls that surrounded their home. There was a cold bite in the air that told Marcus winter was on its way, which would bring with it a whole new set of problems.   
  
He was startled from his thoughts by a young man he vaguely recognised passing nearby and coughing loudly. It was a harsh, rattling cough, deep in his chest, and Marcus frowned, reaching out to stop him in his tracks.   
  
"Hey," He searched his mind for a name, "Ilian?" The boy nodded, covering his mouth as another spasm shook his chest, "That sounds like a nasty cough, have you been to medical?"   
  
Ilian, looking pale even in the dim light, shrugged and shook his head, "It's nothing. I don't want to bother Dr Griffin about a little cold. Far worse things out to kill me now, right?" He smiled good-naturedly, and Marcus returned it, still concerned.   
  
"I'm sure she'd prefer to make sure you're ok."   
  
"It's fine, Kane." Ilian began walking again, "Be seeing you."   
  
Marcus let him go, worry niggling at him, and made a note to mention it to Abby anyway when he saw her next. He let himself into the house (when they'd first arrived at the safe zone, suspicious and wary of their welcome, their group had closed ranks and stayed together in one house. Now they had spread out, but still moved casually between each other's places) and was unsurprised to find Bellamy already there, in deep discussion with Clarke, the two of them with their heads bowed over a map on the table.   
  
"Oh good, you're here," She said, upon seeing Marcus, ushering him over, "We _need_ to figure out a solution for our ammunition problem, it's only going to get worse."   
  
"I know." Marcus gazed down at the map, covered in notes and directions from previous run teams, pointing out nearby towns and locations that they'd already scavenged, as well as walker herd movements and alternate routes to avoid them.   
  
"We have the guns," Bellamy said, "But they're useless without bullets."   
  
"Even if we could just find the raw materials!" Clarke sounded frustrated, "Raven said she could _try_ and manufacture bullets."   
  
"What I _said_ was I'd take a shot at it," Raven interrupted as she came in from the kitchen, grinning at her own joke and winking at the room at large, "Get it? Don't bust a lung laughing, guys, I know I'm hilarious."   
  
Marcus could help the huff of laughter that escaped him; Raven's sense of humour in tough situations had provided a welcome distraction many, many times since he'd first met her. Raven nodded at him, her eyes flickering down to his injury, and she raised a questioning eyebrow. Marcus shook his head minutely: _it's nothing_. Raven, fortunately, did not press him.   
  
"We'll send out another run team in a couple days," Marcus said decisively, leaning on the table and gesturing to an area on the map, east of Arkadia, that they hadn't scouted much, mainly because it was further out than he'd like. Bellamy and Clarke glanced at each other in silent communication, but nodded in agreement.   
  
Marcus blamed Raven for bringing attention to his wound, because up until now he'd done a fairly good job of ignoring it, but now pain flared in his arm as it supported his weight. He drew back and stood up straight with a wince, resisting the urge to check the new stitches.   
  
"How's your arm?" Bellamy asked, in a carefully neutral tone. Raven had apparently been gossiping, and suddenly found the map extremely interesting when Marcus narrowed his eyes accusingly in her direction.   
  
"It's fine," Marcus said, shortly, before swiftly changing the subject, "I'll be heading up that run team as soon as we can figure out a plan."   
  
Bellamy huffed a little, clenching his jaw, and Marcus felt a stab of irritation. First Abby, now the young man in front of him; why was it that all of a sudden everybody seemed to have a problem with him going outside the walls?   
" _What_ , Bellamy?" He ground out, feeling his patience wearing thin, "Is there a problem?"   
  
Bellamy squared his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest, and drew a breath to respond, but then launched into a coughing fit, startling everyone. That niggling worry that had remained in the back of Marcus' mind since he'd talked to Ilian came back to the forefront, turning into a feeling of creeping dread that he couldn't explain.   
  
Bellamy was hunched over and gasping by the time the coughing subsided, his eyes watering.   
  
"Bellamy, are you alright?" Marcus put a hand on his shoulder, their brewing argument forgotten. Clarke was looking at him too, brows drawn in worry, and Marcus noticed how suddenly pale Bellamy had become, even in just the last minute or so.   
  
Naturally, like Ilian, Bellamy shrugged it off.   
  
"Just a tickle in my throat, I'm fine," He met Marcus' eyes, "Honestly, Kane, you're worse off than me." He softened the small jab with a smile, "We all just need some rest. I sure as hell do."   
  
He left the room then with a nod to them all, a little too abruptly to ease Marcus' worries, but he couldn't exactly force Bellamy over to medical. He thought about heading back over there to talk it through with Abby and let her decide if it was worth worrying about, or if he was simply being overprotective. She could be heading over to the house already, or she could be hours. At any rate, Marcus already had the feeling that he wouldn't sleep tonight; sleep only ever really came to him when he'd worn himself out to the point of exhaustion, and even after a few months of living in Arkadia, he was still unused to the feeling of a soft mattress. So, remembering that Bellamy was scheduled for watch duty tonight (that apparently in his tiredness seemed to have slipped his mind), Marcus decided to head over to the wall to cover his shift.   
  
It was clear night; the stars always shined more brightly now that light pollution was lost when the world ended, and Marcus tilted his head back to breathe for a moment. The worrying never stopped. He had a family of sorts now; people he loved and who depended on him. People he wanted to keep safe and build a future here for. Friends, family, people to come home to... Perhaps even someone he hoped to spend the rest of his life with? These were things he never envisioned for himself before the Turn. It had taken losing everything for him to find something worth holding on to.   
  
As if on cue, he heard rapidly approaching footsteps and turned his attention over to Octavia as she made her way determinedly towards him.   
"I want to go out tonight," She said, without preamble, "We need ammo; I’m sure there are places we haven't looked yet."   
  
No, Marcus thought, not _everybody_ was afraid of being out after dark. Octavia's fierceness, her drive to push through her fear, was something he had grown to love and admire about her, but it had made her reckless on more than one occasion.   
  
"Octavia -"   
  
"Look, I know what you're going to say: we shouldn't go out alone, it's dangerous, it's even more dangerous after dark, blah blah, but... Kane, I _know_ I can do this."   
  
Her apparent need to constantly prove herself was another thing that tended to get her into trouble, and (Marcus swore) had shaved years off his life due to sheer stress and panic.   
  
That she had the skills to handle herself, Marcus had no doubt. She was small and slight, but Lincoln had taught her to fight in ways that she could use her size to her advantage. He'd seen her take down walkers twice her size before. She was quick and light on her feet, often moving soundlessly through the trees, and could slip easily into creative hiding places. She was good, and she was still little more than a child; she would grow up to be even better. She was what the generations to come would look like, Marcus thought, with a pang of sadness: children born into a brutal world, who knew more of death and survival than play.   
  
He looked down at the girl, standing with her hands on her hips with an eyebrow raised expectantly. She'd always had that fire; it had been there back when Marcus had met her, but Lincoln had helped her hone it, gave her the skills to fight. Marcus couldn't let her go though, he'd never forgive himself if something happened to her, and Lincoln _certainly_ wouldn't.   
  
"Let me think about it, Octavia," Marcus couldn't make this call on his own. Octavia glared, opening her mouth to reply, but he cut her off, "This isn't a no, I know you're capable. We were out there together long enough for me to know that. But nobody should go out at night; you know this."   
  
"People still do," She mumbled, sounding now like the moody teenager she actually was.   
  
"And that's how we've lost people," Marcus said gently, "We'll discuss it tomorrow."   
  
She gave him a hard stare for a moment, as if she could somehow will his resolve to crumble, but then stepped away.   
"Right." She left, and Marcus watched her go with affection and concern in equal measure. He'd talk it over with Abby, he decided, as he tended to do with all things nowadays. They were partners in nearly every way, they had just yet to close that last distance between them; to take that leap and embrace the feelings that had been brewing, getting stronger and stronger, for a long time now. He had hope that it wasn't one-sided. Marcus yearned for it, and at the same time was terrified of it. He was sure he'd never been in love before, but he imagined that was what it _should_ feel like.   
  
He would speak to Lincoln on the matter now, as he caught sight of the man, high up in the watchtower above the walls. Lincoln frowned down at him as he approached and began to climb, ignoring another twinge of pain in his arm; he'd been expecting Bellamy, of course.   
  
Lincoln reached down and clasped his hand as he reached the top, helping up that last step, and Marcus nodded in thanks.   
  
"Bellamy's not feeling well," He explained, "Thought I'd relieve you. I just saw Octavia heading home."   
  
Well that hadn't been her intention, of course, but Marcus hoped it was the truth now.   
  
"Is Bellamy okay?"   
  
"He assured me he just needs to sleep it off."   
  
Lincoln nodded, seemingly satisfied enough to let it drop. If only Marcus were so easily assured.   
  
There was a comfortable silence for a moment as the two men turned their gazes out into the woods beyond the walls. Lincoln was always quiet, only speaking carefully when his words had meaning and weight to them, and it was a trait Marcus appreciated. Which was why his words meant a lot when Lincoln spoke next:   
  
"Thank you," He said, with a significant look, "For what you did today. I know you didn't find much, but it's something. And you injured yourself to do it."   
  
Marcus huffed a self-deprecating laugh, "Well, I probably could have avoided that if I'd been more careful. Or that's what Abby will tell you."   
  
Lincoln's mouth twitched in amusement, "I'm sure she would. She's only worried about you, you know."   
  
"I know. I worry too..." If Abby took it upon herself to go outside the walls as often as he did, Marcus knew he would not handle it well. He thought about Octavia - his most recent worry - and decided that Lincoln deserved to know what she was planning; he would only want to keep her safe, after all, but had always encouraged her to push herself, within reason.   
  
"When I saw Octavia," He noticed Lincoln focus intensely at the mention of his girlfriend, "She asked permission to go on a run. Alone, tonight."   
  
Lincoln's face immediately darkened and he sighed, shaking his head,   
  
"I don't know why she..." He trailed off, lost in thought and looking out into the trees. When he continued, it seemed as though he was talking to himself, "All she seems to want to do these days is get away."   
  
That certainly troubled Marcus, and he was at a loss as to what he could say. But Lincoln didn't seem to expect him to.   
  
"I'll talk to her," He said, as he crossed the small space and started to climb down, "Good night."   
  
Marcus returned the sentiment and then he was alone. The rifle that lived in this guard tower was propped up in the corner; it didn't seem as though Lincoln had touched it the whole time he'd been up here. There was a box of bullets on the ground, but he saw, with a grimace, that there was barely anything left in it.   
  
Sighing, Marcus turned back to gaze out at what was left of the world around him. It was quiet out there; the only sound was the rustle of the wind in the trees, and not a single sign of life. Or the dead, he thought wryly. Usually one or two walkers could be seen shuffling aimlessly, but there was nothing. The end of the world had its own kind of peaceful, vacant beauty, away from the crumbling cities and the corpses, both still and animated, that littered the streets and buildings.   
  
High above them, Marcus settled in to watch over his family.   
  
  
_3 months after the Turn_  
  
_Neither he nor Abby were skilled hunters, but the same could be said of the rest of their little group. Whilst Clarke, Raven, Wells and Thelonious set about making camp, setting their makeshift alarms around the perimeter and starting a fire, Marcus had volunteered to try and forage some more food than the meagre rations they had left. Why Abby had volunteered to go with him, he wasn't sure. Her reasoning had been that she needed to learn, but Marcus thought they were more likely to start bickering at each other and scare away any potential game._  
  
_He knew she thought him cold, unfeeling, but after losing his mother during the outbreak, being unable to save her, he was only doing what he had to in order to keep these people safe. If that involved hardening himself and staying focused on surviving above all else, so be it. He didn't want to care for them, not in this world they lived in now; caring, as far as he could see, would only lead to more pain in the not too distant future._  
  
_It lead to the kind of irrational choices that Abby seemed to make everyday, in the interest of people's feelings rather than survival. She was a good person, kind, resourceful, determined, and an excellent doctor. Marcus knew he was lucky to be with her and her group. But when she made rash decisions that just weren't sensible or too idealistic, Marcus lost his patience._  
  
_"You should have stayed at camp," He said, and immediately realised he wasn't helping matters between them by being unnecessarily snappish._  
  
_Predictably, Abby bristled, "We all need to be able to find food, learn to hunt," Then, under her breath, "Not that you're an expert yourself."_  
  
_Marcus clenched his jaw and pushed onwards, trying to keep his steps light (he'd never claimed to have any great hunting skills) but then drew up short._  
  
_"Wha -?" Abby began, but stopped when he shushed her softly and touched her arm. It was a wonder when she didn't shrug him away, but perhaps she was distracted by the young girl Marcus had spotted, sitting alone on a fallen tree trunk, head darting around nervously. She looked worse for wear, like everyone did these days. Her clothes were torn and grimy, her long, dark hair hanging in lank curtains around her pale face._  
  
_"Is she alone?" Abby whispered; it was obvious she was concerned more for the girl's wellbeing more so than them being set upon by any other people who might be with her, "She shouldn't be alone."_  
  
_She shot out of his loose grasp and towards the girl before Marcus could do anything to stop her, and he could only follow, hissing at her to stop._  
  
_Upon seeing them, the girl's eyes widened,_  
  
_"Bell!" She yelled, struggling to her feet, raising a hand gun, "Bell, there's people!"_  
  
_Marcus raised his hands; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abby stop and do the same. The girl seemed to be having trouble staying standing, he noticed, favouring her left leg, and when he glanced down he saw blood had soaked through the material around the bottom of her pants, as well as a poor makeshift bandage tied around her calf. Marcus' blood ran cold: had she been bitten?_  
  
_"Bell, you can take a piss later, there're people here!" The girl yelled again as the hand holding the gun started to shake and she grew paler, "Don't come any closer." She growled at them._  
  
_Of course Abby stepped closer and asked, "Are you hurt?" at the same time a young man, a little older than the girl, came crashing through the undergrowth behind her, with a wild look on his face and his gun drawn._  
  
_"O, get back!" He shouted, stepping in front of her; he looked far less scared to be pointing a gun at them._  
  
_"Abby," Marcus didn't move, keeping his hands up and trying his best to appear as unthreatening as possible, "Abby, don't..."_  
  
_"I'm a doctor," She ignored him, and Marcus could feel the frustration rising in him._  
  
_"A doctor is useless if she's been bitten," He snapped, and Abby shot him a glare. Ah, no doubt he was being too blunt again._  
  
_"She wasn't -"_  
  
_"- I'm not."_  
  
_The two strangers spoke at the same time and visibly tried not to glance at each other. Marcus wasn't heartless, he knew Abby was right, these kids were lucky to be alive, who knew how long it had been just the two of them out here. There was something about the dark hair and eyes, the strong jaw they both shared, that made Marcus wonder if they were siblings._  
  
_"We don't want to hurt you," He said, softly, and saw Abby look at him in surprise; no doubt she'd never heard him speak like that before. There was something deep inside Marcus that wanted to prove her wrong in her opinion of him, something that cared whether Abby Griffin thought well of him._  
  
_"Yeah, that's what everyone says," the boy snorted._  
  
_"What happened?" Marcus gestured to the girl's leg._  
  
_She bit her lip, clearly unsure of whether to answer or not, and looked to the boy. After a moments hesitation, not taking his eyes off Marcus and Abby, he answered,_  
  
_"There was a bear trap. In the woods."_  
  
_Marcus winced involuntarily, looking back down at the girl's leg._  
  
_"I can help," Abby entreated, "I'm a doctor. We have medical supplies back at camp."_  
  
_Marcus saw them both stiffen, understandably. People seemed to be posing a worse threat than walkers now, and being wary of everyone, even those seemingly offering help, was the best way to keep yourself alive._  
  
_"Here," Marcus said, trying hard not to second guess what he was about to do and very slowly drawing his knife and gun from their holsters at his belt. He tossed them down at the boy's feet, and motioned with his head for Abby to do the same. She gave him an inscrutable look, but followed his lead nonetheless. "You have our weapons. Keep us at gun point if it makes you feel better, but we want to help you. We want to give you a fighting chance out here."_  
  
_The boy looked torn for a moment, still reluctant to trust them (smart kid, thought Marcus) but then he glanced at the girl's leg and his resolve crumbled into a look of desperation._  
  
_"You're really a doctor?" He suddenly sounded younger, and afraid for the first time._  
  
_"Yes," Abby said, stepping cautiously closer, and when the boy made no move to stop her, she made a beeline for the girl, guiding her to sit once more and starting to examine her wound. It looked pretty nasty to Marcus, but he realised he had faith in Abby's ability to fix it._  
  
_The boy had lowered his gun now, but had scooped up their weapons from the ground and was obviously unwilling to return them just yet._  
  
_"Can I ask your name?" Marcus ventured._  
  
_The boy was watching Abby's movements like a hawk, but his eyes flickered over to him briefly,_  
  
_"Bellamy Blake," He said, "And this is my sister Octavia."_


	3. Chapter 3

It had been well over a year since the world ended, but Abby still felt as though every noise was magnified at night.   
  
The sound of wind brushing against the sturdy panels of her home was a deafening blare, tree branches tapping on her window a booming staccato, the ticking of the grandfather clock on her wall, cymbal crashes.   
  
It was then she most keenly felt the absence of warmth next to her, a hole that drilled down deep inside her and radiated pain through her chest. On nights like this she wondered how Jake would have dealt with the end of the world, if he would have faced it with optimism, with strength, or if he would have been shattered by it like so many others they’d known. It wasn’t really worth questioning, she thought as the edges of her mouth twitched to form a wan smile, when she already had the answer. His smile was only a daydream away, but she missed having him within arm’s reach.   
Heavy-hearted, she reached over and found what she was looking for, relaxed a little when her fingertips brushed against cool metal. She didn’t usually sleep with her necklace – his ring – on.   
  
Then again, she didn’t usually sleep.   
  
Her patients had gone home for the night, none infected with too serious an illness to cure – or at least, to treat – that it merited keeping them until morning. Clarke slept soundly at the end of the hallway, nestled in a room that held drawings of people they’d lost, memories she wanted to immortalize in sketchbook pages. Most of Arkadia, Abby knew, followed her daughter’s example and slept soundly: after all, it was a peaceful night and the ammunition problem exempted, all was well.   
  
At least they weren’t starving. At least they had the walls. At least they had a trained guard who kept the walkers away. All things considered, the ammunition felt like a small problem when compared to starvation, disease, and worst of all…the threat posed by not walkers, but by those who still _lived_.   
  
Stomach flipping at the thought that brought back long-banished memories, Abby decided it was high time to do away with the lofty goal of resting tonight. She’d had only the best intentions – after all, Marcus was incessantly nagging her to get some sleep – but it wasn’t her fault that her brain wouldn’t comply with her well-meaning heart. She could either sit here, sweating in the darkness at her brain’s sprinting considerations, or she could get out of the stuffy house and go for a walk.   
  
Why should she bother begging sleep to come when she knew it had no intention of arriving?   
  
With a curt sigh, she threw the damp sheets off her legs and flicked on the lamp next to her bed. She wouldn’t turn on a light in the hall – Clarke lay awake more nights than she slept, but she’d been especially weary today. Abby wouldn’t take the chance of stirring her from a much-needed slumber. In a few minutes she dressed and pulled her hair into a ponytail, caught her reflection in her dresser mirror with blurry vision and tired eyes.   
  
The back of her mind landed on the word: exhausted. But how could she be so weary when this was the best things had been in months? How could her brain rebel against steel walls and soft beds?   
  
Leaving those questions unanswered for the night, she opened and closed her bedroom door behind her – if Clarke woke up during the night and saw her door open and Abby absent, she might worry. Abby was relieved to find her daughter’s door closed as well, smiled when she realized she was likely getting the good night’s sleep she utterly deserved. At least for an hour or two, Abby Griffin’s presence would not be missed.   
Taking the stairs slowly, she descended to the ground floor of the home at a snail’s pace. It seemed like hours before she arrived at the front door, and locating her black boots in the inky darkness proved a challenge. After a few minutes of fumbling with zippers and clasps she secured them to her feet – good enough, she thought – and with one last smile and a glance upstairs she opened the front door and let herself out into the night.   
  
Blood rushed to her cheeks, summoned by the cool air that caressed her cheeks and tousled her hair, and Abby was thankful she’d thought to grab her favorite vest before she left the house. It seemed that tonight she’d need the warmth the quilted fabric provided, soft suede brushing her chin as she turned her head to take in the quiet nighttime scenery. At least she wasn’t freezing – if it were a few degrees warmer, she’d be comfortable. But at least she was out of the house.   
  
Part of her hesitated, a built-in defense mechanism cultivated from months of survival in a world without walls, without running water, without showers and comfortable clothes. She certainly hadn’t gone out at night, then, and a flickering conscience in the back of her head urged her to go no further than the end of the porch. After all, they had a chair. She could easily sit and observe the peace without walking out into it, could appreciate the world around her from a place of relative safety.   
  
Dispelling the thought, Abby shook her head. She’d come this far, and she wasn’t going to let her doubts take away the pleasure of a nighttime walk. Something had to be done about her sleeplessness, and the last thing she needed was to fall asleep on her front porch and wake up outside in the morning. At best, she’d have a cold. At worst…well, Marcus wouldn’t exactly be _thrilled_ she hadn’t gone back to bed. And he’d find out about her poor choices – he always did – considering he often started his day by checking in with the Griffins.   
  
It never failed to amaze her, how quiet the world became after everything ended. Not just because as she walked down the streets meant for cars, meant for families and minivans and children running across the road, there were no electronics. The world was quiet at night in a way that made the stars shine brighter, in a way that made the moon glow, creamy and brilliant, in the sky above her. It was quiet in a way that magnified the sounds of nature in the brush, the rhythmic chirping of crickets, a rustling in the grass as a squirrel darted across her path.   
  
So many things were horrible now, ruined, tarnished. But at night, behind these walls, the world still shone.   
  
It occurred to her halfway through her third street that she was heading toward the wall without consciously knowing it, her feet making a path toward the outskirts of the safe zone. Somewhere inside, she understood she must have longed for company. After all, today had been fatiguing enough. And although tonight wasn’t Marcus’ night on duty, she thought Lincoln might have a shift. He was always ready and happy to listen, or just to share the silence.   
Looking around at darkened houses with peaceful inhabitants, the gift they’d been given with this place, she almost let herself think it. She almost let herself exhale her worry, her doubt, her fear. And then, for a brief moment…   
  
_Maybe this is all we need. Right here._   
  
And then, as soon as the thought registered, Abby felt the hard, cold asphalt smack against the back of her head, pain exploding through her before she understood she’d fallen.   
  
Or rather, been tackled.   
  
Frantic, Abby reached for her belt – she kept a knife there, for emergencies like this – but her assailant’s body blocked her grip. Pulse pounding she rolled to the side and kicked, desperate to free herself, trying to shove herself free with shaking limbs.   
  
This wasn’t a walker, she thought as she struggled. Walkers didn’t breathe heavily, and walkers weren’t warm. This….this was a person, an intruder, someone who shouldn’t be here.   
  
Eventually she managed to grab ahold of her weapon, raised it, prepared to fight, and…   
  
“Abby, it’s me!”   
  
In the darkness, Abby scowled. They sounded like…but it couldn’t possibly be…   
  
“Octavia?”   
  
“Yeah,” her attacker exhaled in a rush, sounding relieved as she repeated herself. “It’s me. I didn’t mean for you to-sorry.“   
  
Abby would have laughed, if it had been daylight hours. She would have brushed off the incident and let the girl on her way with a gentle reminder to watch where she was going, which the youngest Blake sibling would have promptly ignored with an eye-roll.   
  
Honestly, it was a blessing an apology had even been bestowed upon her.   
  
Which begged the question…   
  
“What are you doing out here? You’re not in the watchtower tonight.”   
An uncomfortable silence blossomed between doctor and runner, and Abby thought she saw Octavia bend down to pick something up. Something in a cylinder, shiny, with a label.   
  
“Octavia, you’re not stealing food, are you?” Abby asked, keeping her voice low. They were close enough to the watchtower that whomever was on duty might hear them, and despite the pounding in her head and ringing in her ears, Abby felt the need to get to the bottom of this. Octavia Blake was many things – brash, impulsive, often recklessly bold – but she wouldn’t steal from her own people. That much, Abby knew.   
  
So it shocked Abby a little when she tried to bolt, turning on her heel and making her way toward the wall. Abby managed to close her fingers around Octavia’s wrist, holding her in place, spinning her around. Her back was an odd shape, and in the moonlight Abby could see she hadn’t just taken a can of food – she’d taken a rifle, too.   
  
“Octavia, answer me,” Abby said, her words a low whisper. “What are you doing with a rifle and a can of food?”   
  
Blue eyes glimmering, the girl’s answer was barely a whisper.   
  
“I’ll tell you if you don’t tell Roan.”   
  
They stared at each other for a moment, each challenging the other to give in. Finally Abby could take the suspense no more – if she knew what Octavia was up to, at least she’d have a good chance to stop it.   
  
“Fine,” she said, still keeping a firm grip on the girl’s arm. Octavia relaxed a little, knowing Abby would keep her word, and looked her in the eyes.   
  
“I’m going out to find more guns,” she said. “I’m taking this stuff, and I’ll be back before tomorrow night.”   
  
Abby stiffened. Had Octavia been present at the chaotic scene earlier today? Admittedly, she’d been a little distracted, and her state of mind had left her only able to see Clarke, Bellamy, and the absence of the person she most desperately wished to find. It stood to reason, Abby thought, that Octavia might have found out about Arkadia’s predicament. And being Octavia, naturally, she wouldn’t wait around for someone else to solve the problem.   
  
“Octavia,” Abby sighed, weary. “You’re not going out to look for guns.”   
“Like you’re gonna stop me,” Octavia muttered, trying to catch Abby off-guard by pulling her wrist away: much to her surprise Abby’s grip was firm, although the motion jolted them both forward a few feet.   
  
“You think you’re going to solve the weapons problem by stealing a weapon and ammunition?” Abby said, trying a new tactic. Perhaps if a refusal was refuted, logic wouldn’t be. “If you want to help, be sure you’re signed up for the next run. This isn’t the way to do it.”   
  
The look in Octavia’s eyes – determined but hollow, her anger burned down to embers, the sea of her blue eyes no longer stormy and churning – made her think Lincoln might have told her the same thing. She didn’t kid herself, didn’t pretend her own gentle pleading might have bent the teenager’s iron will: someone she trusted must have also put their opinion against her plan.   
  
“Lincoln didn’t want you to go, did he?” Abby assumed aloud.   
  
“Lincoln doesn’t...” she started, trailing off as a decent defense failed her. Inwardly, Abby celebrated: even a hesitation from Octavia was a sign of progress.   
  
“I won’t tell Roan what you were planning,” she said slowly, so each syllable landed carefully in the dark night. “But if anyone noticed the rifle and food were missing, I wouldn’t be able to protect you. You could be exiled, Octavia. You have to know that.”   
  
She was quiet, the only sound in the night the shallow cadence of her breathing. Pressing her advantage, Abby continued.   
  
“I’ll talk to Marcus tonight and see if he’s willing to authorize another run for the day after tomorrow,” she said, not relishing the discussion. Because if there was another run the day after tomorrow…Marcus Kane would want to be on it, and she’d have a hell of a time trying to keep him inside the walls if both Bellamy and Octavia signed up to go.   
  
Octavia snorted at Abby’s offer, although there was no real derision behind it. “Why not send me and Bell out tomorrow? He’d go again.”   
  
_Because Marcus won’t have you both leaving so soon, and I can’t ask him to be okay with that._   
  
“Because he needs some time to rest, Octavia. Give him a day.”   
  
The girl glanced away, considering Abby’s proposal.   
  
“Fine,” she said, offering a hand cloaked by a fingerless leather glove. “Tell me you’re going to talk to Kane now.”   
  
Abby started to extend her own hand, froze when Octavia mentioned Marcus. He was undoubtedly asleep at this late hour, and she wasn’t about to wake him up because of this.   
“First thing in the morning,” she said. “I’m not going to wake him up. Your chances are better if he’s had a good night’s sleep.”   
  
The girl smirked, a single corner of her pink lips quirking upward.   
  
“You _would_ know, right?”   
  
Abby’s composure slipped, if only for a second, her jaw dropping almost as quickly as she closed her mouth again. Annoyance flickered in her chestnut gaze: she hadn’t come out here to be on the receiving end of more thinly-veiled innuendoes about her – strictly platonic – relationship with Marcus.   
  
Her lips tingled, remembering skin she’d brushed them against only hours before, the sensation still fresh, electricity coursing through her veins before she could stop it.   
  
She was so very, _very_ tired.   
  
“Do you want me to talk to him or not?” Abby said, quirking an eyebrow. “Because teasing me about our friendship doesn’t make me feel inclined to help.”   
  
Octavia’s shoulders slumped a fraction. “Forget I said anything. Just…tell him I want to help, okay? And if he doesn’t approve this run, tell him I’m going anyway.”   
  
Barely holding back a groan, Abby extended her hand and gave the girl’s a firm shake.   
  
“I’ll do my best,” she said. “But if you’re gone in the morning, I’ll be forced to tell Kane about it. And I can’t guarantee word wouldn’t spread to Roan.”   
  
Octavia dropped her hand, turning on her heel, her ponytail gleaming silver in the moonlight.   
  
“I’m not going to be gone tomorrow morning,” she said, her voice even and measured as she spoke to an empty street. “After that, I won’t make any promises.”   


* * *

  
There was no chance of Abby getting to sleep after that, trying her best to devise a way to tell Marcus the girl he thought of as a daughter was planning to leave Arkadia no matter what he decided. How could she explain it? Should she say he should let her go? How hypocritical of her would that be, when Clarke remained safe inside the protection of the walls?   
  
The solution, she decided, was to find Lincoln on guard duty and talk to him about it. He knew Octavia better than anyone else, and if there was a way to talk her out of her equally absurd replacement plan, it was him. If her estimations were correct, tonight would have Lincoln or Bellamy in the tower, and neither was a bad choice in terms of discussing the events that had transpired between her and Octavia Blake.   
  
Dread coursing through her as she strode toward the wall – or rather, one of the large wooden towers built to overlook it and the area beyond – she found herself wishing she’d never left her home. Insomnia was a far better alternative than having made a desperate pact to keep an unruly teen inside the walls, to lock her in safety when her heart seemed to yearn for danger. Of course, she couldn’t deny her pursuits were noble. At least Octavia was trying to help.   
  
But there was little chance Marcus or Bellamy would let her outside, and even then, she’d been told she’d only be allowed out if she were accompanied by someone older, more experienced, someone who had proven to be capable in times of crisis. What had they expected her to do but rebel?   
  
Abby gripped the first rung of the ladder to the top of the tower, cringing at the gritty scratchiness of rust against her palms. She’d felt much worse, true, but it was never pleasant to make the climb and dust off her hands at the top. Resolving to make as short of work as she could of the endeavor, she pushed herself up rung by rung, ignoring the screaming of her muscles and focusing on the task at hand. The several unpleasant tasks at hand.   
  
It wasn’t long before she’d made her way up the ladder, pulling herself up onto the outer balcony with a quiet grunt of exertion. Apparently she’d used more energy today keeping her patients healthy and worrying about Marcus than she’d thought.   
  
The person on duty had lit a small covered candle – just enough light to see by, when paired with the moon – and strode quickly forward on the creaky wooden planks to help her get to her feet. Abby smiled, thankful for the help, reassured by the gesture. Maybe, she thought, everything would work out for the best in the end.   
“Abby?” the person said, a note of concern woven through his tone, and she swallowed hard. Everything would decidedly not be working out for the best – or at least, there was a decent possibility it wouldn’t.   
  
“You’re still awake?” Marcus asked, the warmth of his fingers through her shirt drawing goosebumps under the thin material. “You need to get some rest.”   
  
Abby was in no mood to have this debate for what she guessed was…at least the second time this week, if not the third. And now, it was unavoidable. She’d be forced to tell him about what happened with Octavia and risk his reaction, risk him vowing to go out on another run before he was ready, risk him being enraged with her for not telling Octavia to forget the entire idea.   
  
“Marcus,” she sighed, desperate for time she knew was running out, “where’s Bellamy?”   
  
Marcus raised his eyebrows, his brown gaze twinkling in the moonlight. “You came here to see him?”   
  
“I came here to see whoever was on duty,” she said. “I thought Bellamy and Lincoln were scheduled for tonight.”   
  
“They were,” Marcus said, inviting her to sit in one of the two empty plastic chairs overlooking the entryway to the safe zone, cracked, chipped things that were all but chemically bonded to the wood and the railing now. “I took Bellamy’s shift for him. He didn’t look well during my meeting with him today.”   
  
Abby sat down slowly, her knees protesting against the motion as they popped. For as annoyed as she often was with him for pointing out the less-than-optimal sleeping habits she’d adopted, her body seemed to agree: she should be resting.   
  
“Did he need to see me?” Abby asked, watching as Marcus sat down next to her. “If he does, I could-“   
  
“He wanted to give it a day,” Marcus said, his voice tight. Abby could tell Marcus hadn’t necessarily wanted to wait, but – at least it seemed – if he could be talked into giving Bellamy’s symptoms a day, his illness couldn’t be too jeopardizing. And it was in Marcus’ blood to worry about the Blake siblings, even if they weren’t blood relations.   
  
“If he’s not feeling better later, send him to me right away,” Abby said, hoping to take his mind off of the eldest Blake when the youngest was currently the biggest source of what would soon be their shared problems.   
Marcus answered her with a grateful smile she wasn’t sure she deserved, brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, held eye contact with her for a little longer than was necessary. She wondered if they were both thinking the same thing.   
  
Up here, nothing really mattered.   
  
They were caught somewhere between reality and fantasy, lost in a quiet world that only existed when they were in each other’s presence. It was irrefutable, even to the increasingly weaker part of her that told her to be logical and to remember the pain of losing others she’d cared about, that he was an oasis in the storm of their hellacious world. Around him, the fervor of her nightmares dimmed, her fears were less pressing, her frayed nerves began to stitch themselves back together.   
  
It was so easy, she thought, to just _be_ with him. To be around him. Even when he nagged her about her lack of sleep and her insistence upon dwindling her portion size so her patients could have more to eat, she never felt more than a brief flash of annoyance with him. They’d come so far from the people they used to be, softened themselves to each other as the world around them remained trying as ever.   
  
Up here, with their people asleep and their heartbeats magnified in the moonlight, perhaps things could be different. Perhaps they could be different things to each other here, now, than daylight and the daily trials of survival would require of them. Perhaps up here, where nothing really mattered, she could put aside her own fears of loss and pain and decide they were nothing more than ghosts, nothing more than specters that haunted every shadow of her existence, and that Marcus Kane might be a light that banished them.   
  
A crash, suddenly, just beyond the wall, was enough to jar her from her dreamlike musings.   
Marcus sprang to action, shouldering his rifle as snarls drifted from the gate to the air above. In one fluid motion, he located the source of the noise – a tattered walker wearing a filthy, ragged suit jacket – and with a single squeeze of the trigger, all was quiet once more.   
  
But the spell, Abby felt, had been broken: the noise of the gunshot was enough to remind her of her purpose. Bellamy or not, there were matters she needed to discuss.   
  
“Are you going to let me teach you how to shoot one of these?” Marcus asked, giving her the same soft smile that opened a cavern of guilt in her chest. It was no use. She couldn’t sit here and talk to him, allow his good mood to spread and grow, when she harbored a secret it wasn’t in her power to keep.   
  
Fortunately, in her moment of hesitation, Marcus seemed to notice something was amiss.   
  
“Are you all right?” he asked, teasing wearing away into concern.   
  
Abby took a deep breath, preparing herself for what she was about to tell him. Words proving a failure at first, she simply shook her head.   
  
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly, clearly assuming she’d come here to get the weight of nightmares off her chest. And in truth, she did do that upon occasion – Bellamy and Lincoln were excellent listeners – and if they could help each other by talking through the ghosts that lay in wait for them behind their eyelids, then they might find some peace next time their heads hit the pillow.   
  
“I have to,” Abby said, matching his tone.   
  
“You don’t,” he reassured her. “Abby, if it can wait until morning, there’s no need to-“ “Octavia almost left tonight,” Abby blurted, unable to keep her weary tongue from shoving the words down her throat one more time.   
  
She watched as confusion set in, his dark brows drawing together as candlelight cast dancing shadows across his face.   
  
“What?” he asked, leaning toward her.   
  
“I ran into her when I was coming here,” Abby said, seeing no point in withholding information now. Sparing his feelings and telling him the truth were different things, but for now, he didn’t need beautiful lies – not when she’d already started telling him the tarnished truth. “She was carrying a can of food and a rifle, and she said she was going out to find ammunition.”   
  
Marcus gave a slow, rattling sigh that she knew came from deep inside his chest – it was the same sound she made when Clarke told her she was going with Roan to look for food, the same sound she made when Raven insisted on going outside the walls.   
  
“How did you stop her?”   
  
“I told her I’d talk to you,” Abby admitted. His scowl deepened.   
  
“About what?”   
“About the possibility of her going on a run in the next few days,” Abby said, and then it was all in the open. There was nothing more she could do to soften it, to soothe the burning, to treat the infection she knew her words would cause. “She’s determined, Marcus. I barely managed to stop her from leaving tonight.”   
  
He was quiet again, pondering her statement.   
  
“If she’s going, I’m going with her,” Marcus said, and Abby’s back went rigid.   
  
“Not until you’ve healed,” she insisted, her tone sharp.   
  
He gave a huff of frustration, although it was impossible for her to tell whether the sound was directed at her or the girl he’d come to think of as his daughter.   
  
“I know,” he said, surprising her with the unexpected concession. “But I should feel better within the next few days. If we can keep her inside the walls until then-“   
  
“ _Marcus_ ,” Abby snapped, “any longer without treatment and you would have had blood poisoning. That’s not something you’ll want to risk again. Not with the supply of antibiotics the way it is.“   
  
It was a weak excuse, and she thought they both probably knew it. While they didn’t exactly have a pharmacy on hand and he had taken the last of the penicillin, they had plenty of medicines to treat a variety of things – there were a few glaring exceptions, as there were always going to be, but the medicine situation paled in comparison to the ammunition dilemma. In her core, she knew she was offering various scenarios to see what stuck. To see what, if anything, would keep him here. Keep him safe.   
  
“Then I won’t do that again,” he said. “I’ll be more careful.”   
  
When she spoke her voice shook, and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.   
  
“I can’t stitch up a bite.”   
  
Realization dawned over him slowly, as he understood the source of her concern wasn’t him leaving Arkadia before he was ready. And of course, of course Marcus Kane wouldn’t think himself worthy of the quarter of her heart that left with him every time that damn car sped away from safety, out into the world of the unknown where routine runs ended in wooden headstones.   
“You won’t have to,” he reassured her, reaching over to give her hand a soft squeeze. The gesture made her stomach flip, although his words offered no solace to the hurricane of emotion swirling in her chest. “But I can’t keep asking these kids to risk their lives, Abby. I can’t keep losing them.”   
  
There it was: that guilt. A pain he felt more potently than most, a devil on his shoulder he could never shake off. He didn’t go because he knew he’d come back: he went because he knew that if he did, he might guarantee the others returned to safety.   
  
What a stupid, noble, infuriating man.   
  
“Well, I’ll talk to Roan about it in the morning,” she said flatly, hoping to make it apparent that this matter was in no way closed for discussion. “See what he has to say about Octavia’s plan.”   
  
“And so will I,” he said, apparently hoping she understood the same. It was selfish, she knew, to keep him here while Octavia left. But was it selfish to worry for his health? To offer good reason for him to stay behind, to explain that he had an injury that could be made worse with the exertion of going on a run?   
  
The only selfish reasons lived in her heart, seeped into her head whenever she cast a glance in his direction, and she’d see to it that they never made it to her lips.   
  
The night seemed to cool around her with the unpleasant thought of him turning, of him becoming one of the things he fought to keep their people safe from, temperature lowering to the somber nature of her nightmares. Involuntarily, she shivered.   
  
And because Marcus Kane was impossibly attuned to her, seemed to share every thought in her head and every beat of her heart, the trembling of her shoulders didn’t escape him.   
  
“Here,” he said, standing so he could remove his jacket, holding it out like a prize he’d won for her. “I don’t need it.”   
  
“But I have a vest,” she offered lamely, considering she was shivering even with the garment around her chest. “Keep your jacket on.”   
  
Apparently determined to circumvent every last iota of her reasonable logic, he stepped close and draped the jacket over her like a blanket. It was large enough to cover her upper body and the tops of her thighs, and she had to admit – although she’d protested – it was warm. But more than that, it felt almost…protective. There was something in these threads that smelled of him, of the way it felt to be in his presence, of the soothing nature close proximity to him typically held. It smelled of forest and rain, of blue skies and better times, of hope when all seemed lost.   
  
“Thank you,” she murmured, the tremors that had wracked her body beginning to still.   
  
He said something she didn’t quite catch, her thoughts beginning to slow along with her breathing. Now that she’d told him about Octavia, now that they’d said what they needed to say – what she always knew they’d say, in a time like this – her body defied her and began to shut down for the night. It grew increasingly impossible for her to lift her arms to brush strands of hair from her face, and when her eyelids slipped closed, she didn’t fight it.   
  
If she woke up here tomorrow morning with Marcus Kane asleep beside her…despite everything that happened, she could at least admit to herself it would have been a good night.   
  
Her mind in a fog between wakefulness and sleeping, she felt soft fingers brush her forehead, tucking that pesky hair behind her ear, trailing warmth from her head through her body.   
Inhibitions lifted as sleep lay in wait for her only seconds away, she felt herself smile. “Goodnight, Abby,” she heard him say, his voice heavy with an emotion her brain was too exhausted to name. She mumbled something nonsensical in return, and she thought she might have heard him give a low chuckle.   
  
And then, from inside the walls, slicing through the peace with a sickening crack that made Marcus spring from his seat and Abby jolt back to wakefulness with a gasp, the sound of a gunshot. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Ilian,” Abby breathed, heart cracking in her chest. She hadn’t been particularly close with him – he was one of their newest recruits, and spent most of his time on the outskirts of the safe zone, filled with regret over what had happened to his brother and the rest of his family. Foolishly, she’d thought he’d come around: that within a few months, he’d be just as much a part of the group as anyone else.   
  
Now, he wouldn’t have the chance.   
  
Octavia holstered her weapon with trembling fingers, though her composure remained intact. Abby sensed from Marcus’ stiffness, the sharpness of his breath, that he wished he could comfort her. She could only guess that performing that mercy – stopping a fellow survivor from wandering as a walker for eternity – wasn’t an easy task. Not when the sound of that person’s voice still rang in one’s ears, emblazoned with life in memory where now, collapsed on the ground, there remained only death.   
  
“What happened?” Marcus asked. “Octavia-“   
  
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice flat, detached. “I was going back home before anyone else-“ she paused, gave Abby a brief glare – “saw me. I only knew it was a walker. I didn’t know it was him.”   
  
Abby glanced over at Marcus, watched as he swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching his fist. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just because he felt pain over what Octavia Blake had had to do. If they had been alone, she might have asked: now, with the rest of their people baring down on them like a thunderstorm, chaos swirling like the wind, she resigned herself to uncertainty.   
  
They had more important things to deal with now.   
  
“How did he just _turn_ ?” Octavia said, a note of worry hidden at the end of her sentence.   
  
“Did he…” Abby said, unwilling to finish the sentence. It was doubtful, she thought, that he’d have taken his own life. As much pain as he felt over the deaths of his family members, he had slowly been coming around to their way of life, thanks to Lincoln and Octavia. He had hope – why let go of it now?   
  
Abby exhaled a little when Octavia shook her head. “I checked,” she said. “I had to know.”   
  
Abby nodded, and when she looked over at Marcus, she knew their gazes of concern matched. If Ilian hadn’t taken his own life…something had happened to take it from him.   
  
“We need to get away from here,” Marcus said, his tone urgent, insistent. He grabbed Abby’s arm and beckoned for Octavia to follow, but Abby shook him off.   
  
“Marcus, we’re not leaving him,” she said, surprised by his sudden change in behavior. For one thing, it wouldn’t do to leave one of their people, now turned and put down, in the middle of the goddamn street. For another…Ilian had been twenty, at most. He deserved a proper burial, respect, to be shown the kindness in death that the world had never bestowed upon him while he lived. She’d thought Marcus, of all people, would understand that.   
  
“I know we’re not leaving him here,” Marcus said, an edge in his voice she couldn’t quite decipher. “We’ll come back. But for God’s sake, Abby, it’s not safe to be here right now.”   
  
Panic simmered in his dark gaze, illuminated by the moonlight and twinkling stars overhead, and Abby felt her heart slam against her ribcage, felt blood rushing through her veins. What did he know? What wasn’t he telling her?   
  
“I’m not going anywhere, Kane,” Octavia spat, saying the words before Abby had a chance. “Not until you tell me what the fuck’s going on.”   
  
Apparently deciding he was outwitted – and outmatched – by two of the most important women in his life, Marcus Kane sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and cast his gaze toward the full moon.   
  
“I ran into Ilian earlier today,” he said quietly, as though afraid anyone approaching them might hear. “He wasn’t feeling well. He had a cough, and – at least, I think – he had a fever.”   
  
Abby frowned. “He had the flu?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Marcus said, exasperated, his back a rigid line. “All I know is that he was sick earlier, and now he’s turned. Those things might be correlated.”   
  
The _flu_. Was that what this was? Could it _be_ what this was? For it to act this quickly, it would have to be a mutated strain of something…or, worse, something that she couldn’t treat.   
  
“A normal flu wouldn’t have acted this quickly,” Abby noted, doing her best to remember decades of medical textbooks that were lost to the abyss, now. “And Ilian wouldn’t have succumbed overnight.”   
  
Marcus stared at her, moved to grab her arm again, to guide her away. Suddenly, she understood the expression on his face, his desperation to get her and Octavia away from Ilian, who was – almost certainly – still infected and contagious. He could break glass and risk a fatal infection, he could throw himself into a pack of walkers, he could skip meals so Bellamy and his sister could eat.   
  
But he couldn’t sacrifice himself to keep them from breathing infected air. He couldn’t give his life to strengthen their immune systems. And now, at their home, Bellamy was already showing symptoms. Her stomach flipped: Bellamy needed to be quarantined as soon as possible…and now, with Ilian in the street, she, Marcus and Octavia had all likely been exposed. Not to mention…   
  
_No_. She couldn’t even think it.   
  
“I’ll get him off the street,” Octavia said, somber, staring at the man who was once her friend. Marcus hesitated, looked to Abby for a better option. She had none. They needed to remove Ilian from the center of life for the rest of their people as soon as possible, if they were going to try to keep this contained.   
  
“Cover your mouth with something,” Abby advised her, relieved to see her pulling a bandana out of her patched backpack. In one fluid motion, she pulled it over her head and secured it, effectively making it into a makeshift surgical mask.   
  
“Good,” Abby told her. “Do your best not to-“   
  
“Breathe?” Octavia said, masking her fear with the attitude Abby had suspected would be forthcoming.   
  
“Something like that,” Abby said, exhaustion seeping through and making her words come out harsher than she’d intended, landing like punches in the discordant quiet of the night. Seeking to soften the blow, she added, “just be careful, Octavia.”   
  
Not bothering to answer, the girl picked Ilian up under the shoulders and began dragging him off toward the gates, sticking in the dark shadows of the homes as much as she could.   
  
Which left only her, Marcus, and the virus thriving in the air around them.   
  
“I took him at his word,” Marcus said, softly, brokenly, his voice hitching at the end of the phrase, a deafening quiet exploding between his sentences. “He said he was fine, and   
I-“   
  
Knowing exactly where that train of thought led, Abby turned to him, resisting the urge to reach up, place both hands firmly on either side of his face, and tell him, sternly, that none of this was his goddamn fault. There was no way for him to understand Ilian’s symptoms without the boy’s true disclosure, and Marcus wasn’t the type of man to force a 20-year-old boy who’d lost his whole family to do something he didn’t want to do.   
  
But it was atrocious, seeing him like this, anxiety and regret radiating from him like heat from the simmering sun. The most she could do was hold eye contact with him, hoping she could absorb some of his pain if it would make his agony less intense.   
  
“There was nothing you could have done,” she said. “You didn’t know, Marcus.”   
  
He shook his head. “But I could have told him to see you sooner,” he said. “I could have insisted that he go to you before he got worse, and maybe you could have-“   
  
Despite her own grief over Ilian’s passing – an ache she’d more keenly feel once they’d dealt with the impending crisis – Abby couldn’t allow Marcus to feel guilt over something that, at best, might only be a half-truth.   
  
“Even if you’d sent him to me,” she said, “I might not have been able to do anything for him. Depending on what this is…I don’t know if we have anything to treat it. Sending him to me might not have done any good, Marcus.”   
  
He looked at her, brown eyes brimming with remorse, and she knew there would be no convincing him tonight. Not when his heart was intent upon claiming the blame, his soul more than willing to bear the weight of Ilian’s life so Octavia’s could be lightened.   
  
“Do you know what it is?” he asked. “What made him sick?”   
  
Abby swallowed hard. She’d known this question would be coming, and her second thought – the one that followed right after, instinctual, instant – was that she couldn’t get a solid diagnosis without observing Ilian at the peak of his symptoms, something it seemed none of them had witnessed. There were several diseases that could cause flu-like symptoms that became fatal almost overnight, none of them pleasant, all highly contagious.   
  
Some, thankfully, were treatable. But just because they could be cured didn’t mean they had the antibiotics on hand, and with the way their supply of medicine was at the moment…it was more likely they didn’t have them than they did.   
  
There was another atrocious option, one that made her shudder, one she’d keep locked inside her own head because she knew it would be too much for Marcus Kane to bear. It could – in theory – be something they’d never seen before. After all, they were all infected with something, a disease that caused them to turn at death. Who was to say it hadn’t reacted early in Ilian? She couldn’t _prove_ it was a flu without seeing him, and…   
  
Feeling sick to her stomach, Abby forced herself to abandon that train of thought. It had to be a flu, she thought to herself, firm. It had to be. Anything else was impossible.   
  
“Right now? I’m not sure,” she said, and Marcus nodded as though this was the answer he anticipated, as though he wasn’t brimming over with disappointment at the lack of an instant answer. Even if he was underwhelmed, Abby knew she’d never see it register – he was far too considerate to express such negative sentiments at such an emotional time. “I have a few theories, but without seeing Ilian when he was sick…I can guess, but I don’t want to make the wrong conclusion.”   
  
Marcus was quiet for a few moments, and Abby wondered if, again, they were thinking the same thing.   
  
“I can get Bellamy,” he said slowly, proving her right. It was as if each word were a pang in his heart, each syllable a recognition of truth they both despised. Abby knew all too well the searing remorse of being unable to protect a loved one, the self-hatred at realizing there was nothing that could be done to help them. But while Marcus couldn’t help – that much was true – she could do her best to save the oldest of the Blakes.   
  
“If he’s showing the same symptoms Ilian was, I should be able to make a diagnosis based on that,” she said, doing her best to be delicate, to respect the torture she knew her words would wreak on Kane’s already tormented heart. “Or at least, rule out enough things that I’ll know what medicines could treat it.”   
  
She saw a question in his eyes then, a fear, but it never slipped from between his lips; all the better, she thought, because she didn’t have a good answer for him.   
  
She couldn’t tell him whether Bellamy would be all right in the end, because she didn’t know what was affecting him. And even then, if she did – if she figured it out, and it was incurable – what would she tell him, then? How could she stand in the presence of a man who loved the Blake siblings as fiercely as she loved her own daughter and tell him the child he regarded as his son had only hours to live?   
  
They both glanced away from each other then, Marcus looking down, Abby looking up at the stars. Their focus snapped back to the ground when a sound came from behind them, a scuffling of feet, and Marcus stepped in front of her before she even knew he’d moved.   
  
“What’s happening?” the voice asked, and Abby relaxed. _Roan_.   
  
Marcus moved to her side again, sufficiently determining that there was no immediate danger but the air around them.   
  
“There’s been an outbreak,” Marcus said, and Abby could tell he was fighting to keep his voice even. It was clear that Roan wanted to talk to him – after all, Marcus was their all-but-official head of defense – but he wanted nothing more than to get Bellamy to her before it was too late.   
  
“I’ll explain on my way home,” Abby said, inclining her head toward the empty street, motioning for Roan to follow her. “Marcus, go get Bellamy and bring him to my office.”   
  
Marcus gave her a nod, paused for just long enough to take one of her hands in his. His skin was soft, warm, and despite all the hell that had likely been unleashed tonight, her breath caught in her throat at his touch.   
  
“Be careful,” he said, although she couldn’t quite understand what he was trying to tell her to stay safe from. Could she stop herself from breathing? Could she prevent a virus from taking root inside her body?   
  
Those were things Marcus Kane, a logical man, would have already understood. But Marcus Kane, as logical as he was, would let his emotions get the better of him where she was concerned – offer her a blessing of a warning, a prayer of desperation, a plea he knew damn well might not be heeded.   
  
Abby didn’t know how to answer him, so she decided to do the same as he’d done.   
  
“You, too,” she said, past the point of caring what Roan made of their exchange, what the two of them together – her still wearing his jacket – might imply about their relationship. Right now, what mattered was bringing Roan up to speed, getting Bellamy into Medical, and her people’s health.   
  
They looked at each other for a moment longer, twin brown gazes saying things their lips would never form.   
  
Then, as if she’d burned him, Marcus dropped her hand and disappeared into the treacherous night.   


* * *

  
"I heard gunfire,” Roan said, apparently unconvinced of the truth behind Marcus’ claim.

  
“Ilian was sick,” Abby responded, rounding the corner of one of the subdivision’s streets. The route might have felt shorter during the day – or even at night, when there was nothing to fear – but now, with the unknown creeping in at the dark corners of her vision and lurking in her every thought, she’d admit it felt longer than the quarter of a mile it likely was. Her legs burned, her hands trembled, and each time she breathed, she felt as though her lungs had shrunk.   
  
“And you think he died from it?” Ilian said, his tone making it apparent his skepticism only increased. “I saw him two days ago and he was fine. It seems highly unlikely that this was-“   
  
Abby bit the inside of her lip, trying to keep herself from screaming. It was essential Roan cooperated with them, that he heeded her advice, that he trusted her both as a   
doctor and a member of his group. If he didn’t, everything could fall apart – their sanctuary could become nothing more than a ghost town.   
  
“Have you heard of the Black Plague?” Abby asked, doing her best to keep the trepidation she felt out of her voice, to ask questions rather than anticipating answers. “Of course.”   
  
“Then you’ll understand why we have cause to be worried.”   
  
“You think Ilian had it?”   
  
“No,” Abby said, as they made their way up the driveway toward her home. “But if we don’t figure out what it is, the outcome could be similar.”   
  
In the darkness, she glimpsed Roan scowling.   
  
“What do you need?” he asked.   
  
That, she thought, was one of the best things about Roan Azgeda – for all his stubbornness, he did take her seriously. He’d been more than happy to find a place in his mother’s safe zone for a former doctor, and typically made certain she had more than enough supplies to keep all of their people healthy. When medicine and supplies had been relatively easy to find.   
  
Unfortunately, the one thing she needed now was something Roan couldn’t give her.   
  
“Time,” she said.   
  
Roan looked at her gravely, eyes narrowing. He wanted an explanation.   
  
“Lincoln keeps some of his medical textbooks in my house,” Abby said, “and I’ll review them tonight while I treat Bellamy. If we’re lucky, I’ll be able to make a diagnosis based on his symptoms and my reading.”   
  
Roan nodded. “What if we’re not lucky?”   
  
Abby paused for a moment, staring into the distance. How was it that such a peaceful night masked such chaos? That such a quiet world drifted outside such uncertainty, that the moonlight still shone brilliant white when their universe was shrouded in darkness?   
  
“Then I’ll have to guess,” Abby said, hating herself for even considering it. She didn’t want to have to make a diagnosis without fully understanding Bellamy’s symptoms – as a doctor, she wanted to be sure. It wouldn’t do the boy any good to give him the wrong treatment, and if his time was as limited as Ilian’s, it could damn well be her only chance to help him.   
  
Her home was only a few houses away now, and with proximity brought other considerations: namely, Clarke. Had she been exposed? She’d spent time with Bellamy today, so it was more than likely. Yet she’d seemed perfectly fine before she went to bed, contentedly sketching well into the night, contemplative and quiet after her meeting with Roan. If anything had been wrong, Abby reassured herself, she would have noticed.   
  
Was it possible that Clarke could have been exposed to the virus, but it hadn’t affected her? Or might she have escaped exposure completely, and by bringing patients into their home, Abby risked her own daughter’s health? If that were the case, how could she prevent Clarke from a fate that seemed all to determined to find her?   
  
So distracted was she by her thoughts, she didn’t understand a word Roan said.   
  
“What?” Abby asked, yanked from her fearful lamentations by the gravelly sound of her companion’s voice.   
  
“The light is on,” he noted, staring at her house. “Did you leave it on when you-“   
  
“No,” Abby said, and the cool night air suddenly felt as though she’d been shoved into a furnace. She reminded herself not to jump to conclusions – just because the light was on, it didn’t mean the worst had happened. Clarke could have noticed she was gone and started looking for her, or, even more likely, woken up and been unable to fall back to sleep. A single light in her kitchen meant next to nothing.   
  
Nonetheless, she adopted a light jog until she reached her driveway.   
  
“How many others do you think have been affected?” Roan asked before she could sprint toward her front door, concern woven in his tone. Abby knew he was fearful – not for himself, but for the fate of his people. He had worked hard to make the safe zone what it was, a place of freedom from the oppressive fear that soaked every inch of the world beyond those gates. Now, it must have seemed to him that despite his best efforts, the constant sacrifices he made, that fear had found its way back inside the walls.   
  
“I don’t know,” she answered, perhaps a little more brusquely than she meant. “If you find anyone else, bring them to me.”   
  
He nodded, stoic. If Roan Azgeda feared any illness, he didn’t let such emotions show.

  
Then, almost inaudibly, he added:   
  
“Let me know if there’s any change with Clarke,” he said, walking away before she could answer as if to emphasize he hadn’t asked a question: he had given an order. He moved quickly, his black jacket blending to the shade of nightfall around them, consuming him as he strode back to the center of the kingdom he ruled.   
  
_Clarke_.   
  
Roan turning away was all the permission she needed to bolt the rest of the way toward her house, throwing open the front door and slamming it behind her with a _boom_ that echoed throughout the two levels of their living quarters. If her daughter were asleep, she’d feel guilty; if she were awake, Abby would have nothing for which to apologize.   
  
“Clarke?” Abby said, raising her voice so she could be heard on any level of their home. At the very least, she’d have to prepare her for the night ahead. With Bellamy being brought in and – most likely – others soon to follow, it would be a chaotic night in the Griffin residence.   
  
She wasn’t greeted with a response, and every logical explanation she’d found for the light shining from down the street began to crumble before her, dissolving away like layers of dust. She wiped sweaty palms on her pants, swallowed hard, taking the steps two at a time as her muscles screeched. The exertion coupled with the small amount of sleep she’d managed to obtain was proving too much for her body, though she was determined to see this night through till the dawn.   
  
“Clarke!” Abby said, louder this time, brow furrowed, breath short.   
  
She was greeted by a small moan from behind a closed door. Her heart nearly stopped. Her gaze dropped to the brass handle that kept her out of Clarke’s room. Light shone down the hallway and stretched her shadow to the opposite wall. The weak sound of her voice was enough to force a breach of privacy.   
  
“I’m coming in,” Abby announced.   
  
She forced herself to breathe.   
  
The sight on the other side of the door was enough to steal that air from her lungs.   
  
Clarke lay in the middle of her room, blonde hair plastered to her head with sweat. Her blue gaze was tired, pained, and she trembled against the navy carpeting – it had once been light blue, before saltwater had soaked it through. Her eyes opened a fraction on hearing Abby’s voice, as though the sheer exertion of raising her eyelids was enough to sap what little remained of her strength.   
  
“Mom…no, don’t…” she started, losing her sentence to a fit of loud, wet-sounding coughs.   
  
In less than a second, Abby had sprinted across the expanse of carpet that separated her from her child, her entire world shrinking down to the single room that held the thing she cherished most in the ruined universe. The front of her shirt was stained yellow-green, telltale signs that the little dinner she’d eaten hadn’t stayed in her stomach, her chin trembling, speckles of crimson dotting her pink lips.   
  
Barely breathing, Abby managed to turn Clarke so she lay on her back, positioning her so her head lay on her mother’s legs. For now, she thought, there was nothing to be done. Bellamy and Marcus weren’t here yet. Roan hadn’t come back to her with more people to treat. Octavia hadn’t told her where Ilian was buried. Lincoln’s medical textbooks were in the next room, ready for her to read when her world stopped spinning and she could feel anything besides sheer, overwhelming panic.   
  
For now, she could allow herself to be a terrified mother. For now, she could be both the doctor tasked with ensuring their people’s survival and a mother who wouldn’t know what surviving _meant_ without her child at her side.

  
For now, she could allow her heart to break.   
  
“Mom…” Clarke tried again, squinting at her, her pupils wide. Abby smoothed the matted hair from her skin, hands shaking as they made contact with the clammy, searing heat of Clarke’s forehead.   
  
“It’s okay,” Abby reassured her, swallowing hard, stroking through fever and sticky sweat. Clarke wasn’t ignorant, and although she couldn’t know exactly what was wrong with her now, she knew it damn well wasn’t okay. But what else could she say? Those words were a reflex, a bandage applied to every situation from a scraped knee to a broken heart. They were instinct, falling through open air before she had a chance to breathe, and she found herself hoping Clarke could let herself believe the lovely lie. If only for the night, she needed some hope.   
  
“Shouldn’t…” Clarke breathed, every breath rattling from somewhere deep inside her, labored, painful. “Touch me.”   
  
Her meaning was clear enough from those three words, and Abby found her vision blurred by tears. Even if she hadn’t already been exposed to the disease, there was nowhere else she’d rather be than by her daughter’s side, helping her, holding her. If this illness was destined to steal the light from Clarke Griffin’s eyes, Abby wanted to be there as long as there was a flicker to be found.   
  
“Don’t worry about me,” Abby said, her heart leaping when a twitch at the corner of Clarke’s mouth evidenced a fraction of a smile – no doubt she’d anticipated that response. “I’m already exposed. And even if I wasn’t, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”   
  
At that Clarke swallowed hard, shaking fingers stretching toward Abby’s cheek, her very touch searing, burning hot.   
  
“Love you,” Clarke breathed, coughed again, coiled in on herself in Abby’s lap. The sound of her wincing with each breath made Abby go cold all over, the heat of determination cooling to a quiet, solemn terror. Ilian seemed to have had only hours. How much time did she have to make a diagnosis before…   
  
A wave of agony swept through her, desolation robbing her of breath and curling her fingers around her daughter’s forearm as though clutching her tightly in this life might prevent her from slipping into the next.   
  
“I love you too,” Abby said. “I love you so much, honey.” 

 

* * *

 

Clarke drifted into a fitful, uneasy sleep, her body shutting down her systems and forcing her eyes closed. Once she was solidly unconscious (but breathing , thank God, she was still _breathing_ ) Abby transferred her downstairs to their worn, patched couch, a matted thing more composed of haphazard stitches and uneven springs than its original green suede. But Clarke adored it for what it was – saw through its many faults – and Abby knew she would be more comfortable there than in her own bedroom, which was stained with vomit and blood and despair. 

  
A glance at the clock told her it had been little more than a half-hour since she and Marcus had parted ways. Nagging, doubtful, a voice in the back of her head reminded her of what could have happened. Of what might have happened, if Marcus was caught off-guard and the illness had already taken its toll. Of how she might suffer not one loss tonight, but three.   
  
Determined to do her job, she banished such despairing thoughts. If Marcus didn’t arrive in fifteen minutes, she’d have to go out and check on him. But for now, at least, she needed to serve a larger purpose: she needed to be a doctor. She needed to figure this out, before it was too late.   
With a quick check on Clarke – still breathing, still breathing, still breathing – she slipped into the next room and skimmed the bookshelves for the one she needed most.   
  
A knock on the door soon startled her, although her muscles gave her enough reprieve to make rising from the floor relatively painless. A small mercy.   
  
She moved to the doorway in a few rapid strides, throwing open the door, daring to hope while bracing herself for disappointment.   
  
“Marcus,” she said, and despite the awfulness closing in around them, she couldn’t help feeling some small flicker of relief.   
  
He was there, standing on her porch, holding an unconscious Bellamy Blake in his arms. The boy seemed much the same as Clarke; his breathing was labored, and he shivered in Marcus’ arms.   
  
“Abby,” he said in return, his voice layered with a sadness she knew only she could truly understand. For as much joy as they had in reuniting, it was tampered by the all-consuming agony of their children’s pain. Neither could truly delight in each other’s presence while their hearts suffered outside their chests, curled up in their arms, blood on their lips, barely breathing.   
  
She motioned for him to come in, and she closed the door behind him after he crossed through the entryway..   
  
“There’s a cot and an IV ready for him,” Abby said, nearly listless, thoughts stumbling and colliding with each other, rendering her unable to speak as she began leading the pair toward a bed she’d never thought she’d be using so soon. Marcus looked around, scowling at the unmoving darkness, but said nothing until they’d secured Bellamy in his place on the cot and an IV was secure in his arm.   
  
They looked at each other after lying him down, both haunted, both fearful.   
  
“Where’s Clarke?” Marcus whispered, and Abby was reminded there was no way for him to know – although it often seemed the case, he couldn’t truly read her mind.   
  
Her pause spoke more than words could’ve said, and the inquiry in his gaze shattered into an even deeper heartbreak, brown eyes churning with sympathy and genuine sadness.   
“Her, too,” he said, his voice quiet, broken. Abby, unable to say it – fearful, for whatever reason, that voicing it might seal her daughter’s uncertain fate – only nodded in response.   
  
Alarmingly, she felt a lump forming in her throat; or rather, she noticed breathing wasn’t as easy as it had been only seconds before, and the blurriness at the edges of her vision were a solid explanation as to why. Swallowing hard and turning away, she decided it was time to get started with her research. If she didn’t bury her brain in textbooks, it would bury itself in other things…make its way toward that tattered old couch and refuse to budge.   
  
Marcus was welcome to stay and help her if he wanted – she certainly wouldn’t turn down company at a time like this – and since they’d both been exposed, she wouldn’t feel too guilty about him remaining by her side. But there was another side to that comforting coin; if he were here, would she be able to keep her defenses up? Could she get through the night in the presence of another suffering parent, keep her own tears from falling when every time she moved she was sliced by the glass shards of not one, but two shattered hearts?   
  
Breathing became harder still, her nose producing only a sniffle as she tried to inhale, and resistance became more and more futile. She turned away then, not wanting him to see her cry. If those tears decided to fall, if her body betrayed her like this, she didn’t want to trigger a chain reaction and have her suffering become his, as well. If now was to be her time to let those emotions get the best of her, she would do so alone. God only knew she was no stranger to crying in solitude.   
  
“Abby,” she heard him say, wood floor creaking beneath his scuffed boots as he rounded the corner of Bellamy’s cot to approach her. “I’m so sorry.”   
  
“I have to go through Lincoln’s textbooks,” she muttered weakly, still not looking at him. Seeing her own pain mirrored in his eyes might be enough to break her completely, and for now, she needed to remain a maze of fractures stitched together by whatever thread of hope was keeping her intact. “I have to figure out what’s wrong with them.”   
  
She felt a hand on her shoulder, a gentle touch that coursed the warmth of sunlight through her entire being. Though nothing inside her was quiet – her heart and thoughts both raced in unison – something deep down relaxed at the contact, and the lump in her throat flattened just enough for her to feel comfortable looking at him again.   
  
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he volunteered, doing exactly the thing she’d damn well known he was going to do.

  
Abby stared at him, weighing her options. If she told him he could stay, would it ruin her chances of making progress? Marcus Kane, as determined as he was to be of assistance, was not a doctor. He could leaf through pages of used textbooks much as anyone else could, skimming through glossaries and indexes for key words. It was entirely possible – if not probable – that it might take more time and effort to explain the process and terminology to him than it would to simply begin working by herself.   
  
Lost for words, she simply tried, “You’re not a doctor, Marcus.”   
  
He paused, processing, while his gaze remained as soft as the blankets under which Clarke slept, as gentle as the breeze that blew through her barely-open windows.   
  
“I know,” he said. “But someone needs to monitor them until Jackson and Lincoln get here.”   
  
A fair point. She doubted Roan hadn’t thought to awaken her assistants, but it would take them a decent amount of time to arrive – they lived across the safe zone from her. And she’d be wasting even more time if she trudged up the steps to get his books and back down again each time she needed a new one.   
  
“Okay,” she said, permission bestowed with a sigh.   
  
Marcus gave her a tiny smile, undoubtedly relieved she’d allowed him to stay with the kids. She helped him pull a chair up beside Bellamy’s bed, making as little noise as possible though they both knew something as miniscule as the scraping of a chair against wooden floors wouldn’t be enough to awaken her sleeping patients.   
  
Only once they’d positioned the seat next to the cot did Marcus frown, glancing around in bewilderment.   
  
“Where’s Clarke?”   
  
“On the couch,” Abby said, taking a deep breath to bite back her emotions. “She’s asleep, too. I should’ve moved her to a cot, but I couldn’t-“   
  
“Does she have an IV?” Marcus asked – his tone wasn’t blameful, not remorseful as the aching in her heart that insisted she should have put her daughter in a place where she could be better monitored than across the room on her favorite couch. But she’d been thinking with her heart and not her head, choosing comfort over practicality.

  
“Yes,” Abby said, relieved she’d gotten at least one thing right. “If it would be easier for you, we can move her next to Bellamy.”   
  
Marcus shook his head. “She’s comfortable there. We shouldn’t disturb her unless we have to.”   
  
_Unless we have to._   
  
It was an innocent enough phrase with a variety of meanings, but insomnia and exhaustion and stress had lowered her defenses. _Unless we have to_ could mean Clarke choking on her own blood, could mean her daughter waking up screaming for help, could mean her seizing on the couch she loved to lay on and sketch memories of a world that no longer existed. _Unless we have to_ was borne of her worst nightmares, of another mournful step toward losing the thing she loved most.   
  
But Marcus was dealing with his own demons, and she wouldn’t let hers out when she knew he had enough trouble containing his own. So instead of breaking down, of letting him hold her as he’d done so many times before, she turned to him and said;   
  
“Let’s hope we don’t.”

  
They looked at each other, both lost in worst-case scenarios and night terrors. Desperate to break the cycle of sympathy and pain, Abby decided it was high time to do the thing she knew she had to do. To try to make certainty out of their blurry situation, to try to clear the fog surrounding their peaceful community before it enveloped them whole.   
  
“I’ll be upstairs,” she said. “Let me know if anything changes.”   
  
“I will,” he said, both a reassurance and a promise.   
  
And with that, she turned to find truth in a sea of questions, clarity in a whirlpool of textbook pages. 


	5. Chapter 5

_Influenza (swine). The main swine influenza viruses circulating in U.S. pigs in recent years have been, swine triple reassortant (tr) H1N1 influenza virus, trH3N2 virus, and trH1N2 virus. A respiratory disease of pigs caused by type A influenza viruses that regularly cause outbreaks of influenza in pigs. Influenza viruses that commonly circulate in swine are called “swine influenza viruses” or “swine flu viruses.” Like human influenza viruses, there are different subtypes and strains of swine influenza viruses._  
  
_Leptospirosis is a bacterial disease that affects humans and animals. It is caused by bacteria of the genus Leptospira. In humans, it can cause a wide range of symptoms, some of which may be mistaken for other diseases. Some infected persons, however, may have no symptoms at all. Without treatment, Leptospirosis can lead to kidney damage, meningitis (inflammation of the membrane around the brain and spinal cord), liver failure, respiratory distress, and even death…._

* * *

  
The sun had just begun creeping over Arkadia’s rooftops, lighting the sky with an eerie orange glow that signified neither nighttime or daylight, catching the safe zone in a limbo between sleep and waking, between death and life. Abby Griffin stared out the window, eyelids heavy, having narrowed the disease down to just two choices: swine flu or severe leptospirosis. Either one might produce the symptoms her people exhibited, the respiratory symptoms she’d seen overnight with an ailing Bellamy and a feverish Clarke. Either one might have explained Ilian’s quick progression. Either one, depending on the person affected, could be deadly or, in the end, harmless.  
  
Only one was truly treatable.  
  
There were drugs they could use to lessen the symptoms, in theory, if this was a type of flu. Before the outbreak there had been a couple of prescriptions that had been meant to soften the influenza blow: mainly, oseltamivir and zanamivir. While they weren’t a cure, they might weaken the disease to the point where their people had a fighting chance – so their overwhelmed immune systems could put up a good fight against the virus. In the end, it wasn’t curable. She could do their best to help, but she wouldn’t be able to guarantee her people’s – her daughter’s – safety.  
  
If it was Leptospirosis, catching it early was paramount, but treatment would be more likely to be effective. Intravenous antibiotics would have to be given to those who were already severely ill – namely, Bellamy and Clarke – but the others could be treated with doses of doxycycline and Penicillin. Neither of which Arkadia had on hand. Marcus had been given the last of the Penicillin for his arm.  
  
The factor she knew she had to consider was also the one that made her stomach churn the most, the one that drew beads of sweat down her brow and made her muscles ache. They were all infected with something, something that caused them to reanimate after death. Who was to say this wasn’t the same virus that had already taken root in each of them, growing and spreading inside until it destroyed them?  
  
A knock on the door made her jump, caused the textbook in her lap to fall to the ground with a clatter. It didn’t matter now, where it landed. She had her notes, and she had a plan.  
  
“Come in,” she said, despising herself for how weak she sounded. She couldn’t be tired – not at a time like this. She couldn’t afford to be tired. Although Jackson and Lincoln had come over and offered to help her search, she decided they’d be better off helping Marcus take care of those who needed treatment. Her choice was confirmed by the steady stream of people who flowed in overnight; Clarke and Bellamy were no longer the only ones with symptoms, although they were the most affected by the disease.  
  
Clarke and Bellamy were running out of time.  
  
Oblivious to her frantic state, Monty Green stepped through the door. The boy had volunteered to help after finding Harper McIntyre had come to her office during the night, and although Abby was loath to expose someone who might not have otherwise contracted the illness, she needed all the assistance she could get. He’d insisted, desperate to watch over Harper, and she couldn’t tell him no.  
  
“Abby?” he said after a pause, apparently still acclimating to not calling her ‘Doctor Griffin.’ There was, Abby thought, no place for such titles. Not when they were all on equal ground, battling for their lives, doing their best to keep the people they loved safe.  
  
“Yes, Monty?” she said, now excruciatingly aware of the mess of textbooks strewn across the floor of her office, pages of lined paper she’d written and discarded throughout the night as she brainstormed what might be affecting them lay haphazardly scattered like snowflakes.. It was, in a word, a mess. And she sat in its epicenter.  
“Kane just wanted me to make sure you…” he trailed off, as if suddenly intimidated by her - or, perhaps he was intimidated by Marcus. “He was worried about you, I think.”  
  
“Tell him I’m fine,” Abby said. Distracted, she felt herself begin formulating a plan – or at least, half of one. There were no good options right now, nothing in which she felt truly confident. There was no good answer, nothing that would offer a genuine cure, no piece in the puzzle of her people’s symptoms where her research perfectly fit. But taking a chance was better than doing nothing at all, and Abby Griffin had to try. “Is Roan here? I need to talk to him.”  
  
They’d probably moved past the point where Roan Azgeda’s approval was necessary – after all, his safe zone was fast falling to ruin – but force of habit dictated that she at least share her plan with one other person. And as much as she wanted that other person to be Marcus Kane…that was as impossible as it was foolish. If he knew what she had in mind, he’d never approve. Which was exactly why he couldn’t know: not until it was already in motion.

  
“He was earlier,” Monty said. “He and Kane helped bring people here. Do you want me to get him, too?”  
  
“No!” Abby exclaimed, surprised at the force her weakened lungs offered in that single syllable. Monty raised his eyebrows, confused by her outburst, and she decided it was worth sanding down the edges of her exclamation. “No, I only need to talk to Roan. Don’t bother Marcus right now.”  
  
“Kane’s going to ask about you,” Monty said, raising his eyebrows, and Abby began to wonder if Monty Green wasn’t asking a little too much. Or – was she simply paranoid about keeping this from the man she trusted most?  
  
“I know,” Abby admitted. It was the closest she’d come to admitting she was doing the wrong thing. Marcus should know about this – as head of their defense, it was almost dangerous for him _not_ to – but it would be far more dangerous for him to know and prevent her from going. He’d understand, once she came back with the medicine. He had to.  
  
“So, what do you want me to tell him?” Monty asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tattered red hoodie. He looked very small, afraid, and Abby was struck by his youth and his pain all at once – a downpour of emotion. Monty had not only been forced to shoot his reanimated mother; he’d been unable to save Jasper Jordan, his closest friend, from committing suicide. Harper was the person closest to him now, and the thought of losing her became more and more unbearable with each second that passed.  
Monty couldn’t know it, but his hesitation and posture backed her decision with steel, hardened her resolve. She had to leave the walls, to keep the people they loved by their family and friends’ side.  
  
Monty Green would not lose Harper McIntyre today.  
  
“Tell him I’m taking a nap,” she said. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep Marcus from barging into this room and finding it empty – he wouldn’t want to wake her. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”  
  
This apparently assuaged the boy, who gave her a nod and started to turn around. Abby couldn’t resist adding one last thing, another force of habit, her heart racing and her palms sweating. She hated keeping secrets from Marcus, but this was something she couldn’t tell him.  
  
“Monty?” she said, and the boy turned to face her again.

  
“Yeah?”  
  
She could go back on what she was about to ask, now. She could tell him to bring Marcus, too. She could tell him she needed Marcus there along with Roan, and so much of her – every part of her – wished she could.  
  
But instead, all she said was, “Hurry.”

 

* * *

  
“You’re going to leave now? You’re our best doctor, and you want to go when most of our people are sick?”  
  
Abby nearly winced: this was exactly what she’d been afraid of. Roan was intimidating at the best of times, standing close to six feet tall, with a glare that came with perpetually narrowed eyes. Clarke got along well with him, considering they had the same mindset, the same goals, and they’d understood each other from the moment their groups merged. But even having saved his life from a gunshot wound, Abby felt as though she didn’t fully understand the man in front of her.  
  
They’d had to meet in his home – Medical was out of the question for obvious reasons, and Marcus might go to Abby’s house in search of her if he found the bedroom above her office empty. If fate chose to side with her today, the meeting would take less than twenty minutes, and she would be on her way outside the walls within the next hour.  
  
As she stared at the man in front of her, his fingers wrapped around the ledge of the table with enough force that she thought she might see it splinter, she thought fate might have chosen a different partner today.  
  
“Roan, I’m the only one who knows what these medicines are,” she said. “We could send others, but they might not come back with what we need.”  
  
“Is it treatable?” he asked, grim, dropping their previous subject for the time being. Abby wished she could give him better news, but was determined not to lie: lying to the leader of their group would get her nowhere.  
  
“Possibly,” she said. “I found two options last night, and I think it’s one of them.”  
  
“What are they?”

  
Abby hesitated, trying to determine what explanation she could offer a man who had no formal medical training and, like her, was running on less than seven hours of sleep in the past two days.  
  
“It’s either a severe strain of swine flu, or Leptospirosis,” she said, watching as Roan’s already deep frown furrowed an even more pronounced crease into his tan forehead. “If it’s a virus, it’s a type of flu. There are drugs that I could use to bring down their symptoms, and it might give them a fighting chance. And if it’s Leptospirosis, there are antibiotics I can give them if we catch the symptoms quickly enough.”  
  
Roan gave her a sidelong look. “And what if it isn’t either of those things?”  
  
Abby paused, sucked in a deep breath, forced down her own nerves.  
  
“It has to be,” Abby said, resolute, unwavering. “Their symptoms don’t match anything else I’ve studied. If it’s not either of those, it’s something I’ve never seen before.”  
  
She chose to ignore the nagging doubts in the back of her head that insisted it might not be either of those things. Over and over again, she reassured herself that her years of study in the field and her extensive research just last night wouldn’t have steered her wrong. That her intuition usually guided her on the right path, that her understanding could light their way to a brighter future.

  
But God, it was at times like this that she most missed the Internet. A simple Google search could have given her the same results as it took her all of last night to find. And then, with those results, she could have already been out with someone beyond the walls, searching for the cure to their people’s shared ailment. If they still had the internet, everything would have been easier.  
  
“And we don’t have any of those antibiotics on hand?” Roan asked. “The ones that’ll treat Lectospitosis-“  
  
“Leptospirosis,” Abby corrected him out of instinct, not too exhausted to insist on correct medical terminology. Her stomach sank when she considered the rest of her sentence – where it would end, the sour note upon which it would terminate. “No, we don’t. It can be treated with Penicillin, but I gave the last of it to Marcus for his arm.”  
  
“Damn!” Roan swore, slamming a fist on the table, causing the few cups and silverware, scattered about the wooden surface like leaves in a breeze, to fly into midair and land with a _clink_ . It was, in a way, a sort of tragic irony: they’d been so focused on the ammunition problem they hadn’t thought to put resources into their medicine problem.

“That’s why I have to leave,” Abby said, hoping to direct him from anger back toward action. “The sooner we get our people the medicine – any kind of medicine that might help – the better. With these two diseases, time is essential.”  
  
Jaw clenched, Roan gave her a look that fell somewhere between rage and respect, blue eyes glimmering.  
  
“I’ll take it into consideration,” he said, and Abby felt that same anger bubble up inside of her, fists clenching beneath the table. Roan was usually at least tolerant of her needs – except recently, given that Arkadia could barely defend itself – and now, when it mattered most, he decided to pull rank?  
  
“Roan-“ Abby started, but he cut her off by raising his right hand.  
  
“I understand your concern,” he said, “but you’re our best doctor. If things get worse, you’ll be needed here.”  
  
“I’ll take a radio,” Abby volunteered. “If things escalate, I’ll come right back.”  
  
This answer apparently satisfied Roan, at least temporarily, before he said the thing she’d desperately hoped he wouldn’t be awake enough – or focused enough – to say.  “And, since he’s the leader of our defense, you need permission from Kane to authorize a run. Does he approve?”  
  
Abby took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, felt tension seep back into her shoulders, the pounding of her heart becoming so deafening she felt certain Roan must be able to hear it. Roan Azgeda was a smart man. Certainly he had to know there was a reason he was present here, huddled around his own kitchen table in the middle of the day, and Marcus Kane was not.  
  
“I was hoping you might be able to approve the run for me,” she said slowly, measuring every word, knowing there would be no second chance if she said the wrong thing. “Considering it won’t last more than a day, I didn’t want to bother Marcus. He has bigger things to worry about.”  
  
Roan snorted, and she considered he was remembering all the other times she’d tried to swerve around their laws for the good of the group. He was a tolerant leader, considering all the times Abby Griffin had been a thorn in his side: she’d been notorious for dispensing more than the limit of medication allotted to sick people (they needed it, and she wasn’t about to let some yellowed slip of paper in Roan Azgeda’s office tell her what to do).  
  
Roan Azgeda also probably knew that no matter what he told her – whether or not his permission was granted – Abby Griffin was damn well leaving the safe zone as soon as she could obtain (or steal) the keys to a car. This question was a formality, a form of reassurance that she would be allowed back through the gates after they closed behind her. It would be up to his discretion whether or not she could stay, if she so concretely disobeyed him yet again.  
  
“It’s not like you to lie to Kane,” Roan said. Abby knew it was only an observation – a personality tab he’d mark on her and consider in the future – but it stung as though he’d slapped her instead of spoken. It really _wasn’t_ like her.  
  
“I’m not lying,” Abby said. “I’m excluding some facts for his protection. You and I both know if he knew I was going, he’d insist on going, too.”  
  
Roan gave a gruff, short laugh. “That’s true.”  
  
Roan stared at Abby.

  
Abby stared at Roan.  
  
“You have my permission,” he said, and Abby breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  
“Thank you,” she said, thankful to know that she – and not simply the bag of whatever medicine she might find – would be allowed entry into Arkadia.  
  
“I’ll leave as soon as I can,” she said, standing to leave. “We can’t afford to waste time.”  
  
“Abby,” Roan said, his tone urging her to wait a moment longer. She turned back to him, but his voice didn’t hold – his sentence was broken by a series of coughs that he covered with his elbow, his entire body trembling as he succumbed to the thing that waited for each of them, lurked in the shadows and nightmares of those who weren’t yet affected.  
  
Abby rushed over to him, ready to catch him – or at least, to do her best to try – placing a hand on his shaking shoulder that he rapidly shrugged away. A muffled “I’m fine,” was grunted, but when he withdrew his arm from his lips, his skin was spattered with tiny drops of blood.  
  
“You need to get to Medical,” she said, heart sinking. If Roan was affected, there might be no limit to how many people had succumbed to the illness – and now, she raced against time not only for Clarke and Bellamy, but for their leader, too. There was no denying it now – she needed to go on that damn run.  
  
His stare crackled with resignation, a fear in his gaze that she’d never before seen. A single nod acknowledged her assertion, but he managed to finish his thought.  
  
“You should tell Kane,” he said. “What you’re doing.”  
  
Abby froze, breath catching in her throat, blood running cold. There was, simply put, no way in hell she’d be telling Marcus Kane she intended to go out on a run – something she hadn’t done in months – with ammunition running low and half of their people sick. He’d see her logic, as he usually did, but she doubted he’d be okay with the process of seeing that logic into action.  
  
Or, worse, he’d see the merit in her plan, but he’d want to go with her.  
  
But Roan was coughing up crimson now, Clarke was sick, Bellamy wasn’t opening his eyes, and there was no time to untangle the complicated knot into which her feelings for Marcus had woven themselves.  
  
“I’ll think about it,” she said.  
  
Truly, that was all she could offer their ailing leader.

  
He rejected her offer to walk with him to Medical, determined that she would make better time on her own. She made him promise he would go – a proposal he accepted – and as quickly as their meeting had begun, it was adjourned. Abby let herself out of Roan’s home without making a sound, ready to return to the inferno of illness with nothing more than a garden hose.  
  
Closing the door behind her, Abby began making her way down the front steps, doing her best to ignore the blurring at the edges of her vision. Sleep was the least important thing right now, and she’d hold it off as long as she damn well could.  
  
The roads were a well-worn map to her, and she knew the way home not just by heart, but by nature. Her feet turned left without conscious command, leading her farther and farther away from Roan’s home, and it alarmed her how much effort she was having to pour into something as simple as moving forward.  
  
_You can’t sleep_ , she chided herself. _Not when everyone needs you this badly._  
  
“Abby!”  
  
Her heart stopped.  
  
“Shit,” she breathed, almost hoping her lack of sleep had made her hearing unreliable.  
Monty was supposed to keep him away from her, God dam-  
  
“ _Abby!_ ”  
  
He was closer now, and she wouldn’t be able to evade him without running away, and running away was out of the question because her legs would sooner collapse underneath her like a folding chair than move quickly. Resigned, she stopped walking, and waited.  
  
It wasn’t ten seconds before Marcus Kane had caught up to her, sweating from disease or exposure to the sun, she wasn’t quite sure. Her eyes moved from the water dripping down his forehead to his eyes, which held traces of confusion – he’d been told one thing, and was seeing another.  
  
“Abby,” he said, her name a single gruff exhale. “I was told you were taking a nap.”  
  
She had nothing to offer to that, inwardly shrieking, hating herself, hating him, hating the disease that infected not only their people, but likely their relationship. And when it was all over, could she cure it? Penicillin wouldn’t remove the bacteria of betrayal.  
  
Staring up at him with the afternoon sun beating down on them both, Abby Griffin – through thoughts muddled with exhaustion – decided if Marcus Kane deserved anything, he deserved honesty.  
  
“We need to talk,” she said, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst.

 

* * *

  
Twenty minutes later, after Abby had checked on her patients (Clarke and Bellamy were both sleeping for the time being, but they were breathing, they still had a pulse, they were _okay_ ) and been given a briefing from Jackson, they stood in the bedroom she’d upended with textbooks and notes, standing on atop a night’s worth of agony and sweat and tears. They stood on opposite sides of the bed itself – a safe distance, she thought – just far enough that if either of them reverted to their old, bickering ways, they were far enough away that the verbal blows wouldn’t leave them too winded.  
  
“You weren’t going to tell me?” Marcus said, his mouth a firm line.  
  
Betrayal rang in every syllable, and Abby despised herself for being unable to give him an alternative response. There was nothing else to be said that he hadn’t already spoken for himself. She had fully intended to go over his head, until he showed up outside and made that plan utterly moot. Needless to say, she’d meant to leave him in the dark. Because for once, the darkness would offer him not danger, not uncertainty, but protection.  
  
“I went to Roan because he needed to approve it, too,” Abby said. It might not have been the whole truth, but it was at least a fraction. Roan’s authorization was essential for every run, and in the end, Marcus likely would have pointed her in his direction.  
  
“No one goes to Roan first, Abby,” Marcus said. “I know you know that. And getting Monty to _lie_ to me? I…” he paused, exhaled a huff of frustration. “I don’t understand.”  
  
Roan hadn’t understood, either. She and Marcus weren’t people who were meant to be secretive with each other – since she’d discovered who he really was, they’d been able to read the other person often better than they could translate the jumble of their own feelings. Even if she hadn’t had the misfortune of running into him, it had been stupid to think he wouldn’t find out. One look at her would tell him everything he needed to know.  
“I didn’t think it through,” she admitted, because truly, she hadn’t. But God, she was tired and terrified and troubled and every second she spent here instead of finding medicine hurt like pricking her skin with a needle.

“Marcus, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
  
Quiet, then, a thing so deep and dark she felt as though she were falling into it without a parachute, waiting for his words to catch her and save her from an inevitable crash-landing. His jaw clenched, his fingers shoved in his pockets, his gaze cemented to the floor – shame coursed through her, red-hot and scalding, and more than anything she wished she could go back in time and undo whatever damage had been done between them.  
  
“I thought we were past this,” he said, his voice soft, hiding a sting in its implication.  
  
“We are,” Abby said hurriedly. There was only space in her mouth for those two words, and even then, they nearly stumbled over each other. With her heart in her throat, her voice came out weak and broken. “This didn’t – I didn’t mean to – Marcus, I’m sorry.” That same quiet, then. And it was too much – him not talking and her thoughts screeching, the same damn sentence pounding against the sides of her skull hard enough to give her a headache. _I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you._  
  
But when she opened her mouth, those weren’t the words that stumbled out.  
  
“You understand why I have to do this,” she said. “Don’t you?”  
  
Heart racing, Abby fought the urge to shout at him until her throat went raw. There were only so many explanations she could offer without betraying herself – without exposing the emotions she meant to keep covered. The feelings that should never see the light of day, not when people left and didn’t come back and “lost” never translated into “found.”  
  
Marcus glared at her, and for a moment, she wasn’t in a bedroom in Arkadia with walls around her home and food in the pantry downstairs and running water and, the raging virus beneath them excepted, safety. For a moment she was back in the woods with him, screaming at him until she couldn’t speak, unable to understand how someone could be so unfeeling, so rigid, as emotionless as the living dead that shuffled in the brush around them.  
  
Had she switched places with that man, now? Was it equally as numb of her to go behind his back, to ignore how close they’d become and act without his permission? Or was permission the true deciding factor, considering the depth of both of their emotions?  
  
Was this a betrayal of his rank, or his heart?  
  
“No,” he spat, a single syllable into which he poured his anger, disgust, and the roaring rage he showed through the furrow of his brow and the stiff line of his back.  
  
She’d been expecting his refusal, so it didn’t wind her deeply, but it still managed to steal the breath from her for a second or two. How long had it been since Marcus Kane had been truly angry with her? How long had it been since she’d been on the opposite end of that vaporizing glare?  
  
“You’re not going out there alone,” he continued. “You wouldn’t even let me teach you how to shoot a rifle.”  
  
She cringed, remembering how playful those words had been less than a day ago. _Are you ever going to let me teach you how to shoot this thing?_ Now, both reasoned and logical, they chipped away at the solid foundation of her argument, drove them apart as equally as they’d been brought together just one night before.  
“We don’t have ammunition,” she said. “I won’t be _shooting_ anything, Marcus. And I know how to use other weapons.”  
  
“You can’t know what you’ll need to do,” he countered. “You don’t know what’s out there. Abby, I-“  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said, hoping she sounded half as sorry as she truly felt, pangs of guilt radiating through her chest. This needed to end, before she did something silly, like starting to cry. “But I’ve made my decision. Lincoln is going with me.”  
  
“And I’ve made mine,” he said, stern, a wave of calmness washing over him as he – perhaps foolishly – assumed their argument was nearing a close. “ _I’m_ going with you. Lincoln can stay here, where he can put his medical training to good use.”  
  
When Abby would think back on this moment, she’d realize the single heartbeat she heard thump in her ears marked the second when everything – her carefully-built wall of emotions, her anger, her fear – snapped, splintered, ripped itself apart inside her. There, in that bedroom, with an already-injured Marcus Kane insisting he place his life on the line yet again, her composure broke in a way it would take her days, if not _weeks_ , from which to recover.  
  
“No!” she shouted, surprising herself with the force she wielded in her words, her tone. If she were more awake, her circumstances less dire, she might have been more self-conscious. She might have considered the patients and assistants on the floor below, who could hear her exclamation as clearly as if she’d been standing beside them. But now, she could only see the man in front of her.  
  
The man who loved Bellamy Blake and Octavia Blake with his whole soul, the man who ripped himself apart and stitched himself back together so many times that he must have been more patches than the fabric of himself, of who he’d been before the world ended – and somehow, that act of self-reparation made him stronger, kinder, sweeter. The man who gave her his coat when she so much as gave a single shiver. The man who told her everything was going to be all right, even when he knew it wasn’t, just because he wanted her to hold onto the hope she’d nurtured throughout her life.  
  
She would not let him sacrifice himself for her. Not when he had so damn much to live for.  
  
The single “no” would have done the trick – his eyes had widened, the fists in his pockets relaxed – but far from done, she continued.  
  
“No,” she reiterated, still far from her normal tone, determined that at this point volume must equal – or reinforce – comprehension. “You’re not doing this, Marcus, because I don’t know what I’d do if I lo-“  
  
Then, as quickly as the thunderstorm of her words began, it dried up. Her tongue heavy, her mouth dry, she stared across the room at him and wondered what was going on behind those deep brown eyes. He looked at her, and she considered he might have been contemplating the same thing – why she’d stopped talking, where her sentence was going, and if he wished she’d let it go there.  
  
_Lost you_. Her brain finished the phrase before she could silence it, and there it was, deafening in the quiet that grew between them. _I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you_.  
  
It wasn’t like she hadn’t known it. It wasn’t like these words were a discovery to her, something new to catalogue and investigate, something to take notes on and study. She’d known long ago that without Marcus Kane, something inside her would wilt and never grow back. But there was a difference in knowing it and saying it out loud, in letting it exist in comfortable solitude in her heart versus shoving it out into the open.  
  
She couldn’t lose them both. She damn well couldn’t lose either one of them – not her daughter, not her closest confidant – but the loss of both of them would be enough to fracture her beyond repair.  
  
Marcus said something, barely whispering, and her heartbeat was too loud for her to make it out.  
  
“What?” she said, lowering her voice to match his, the time for screaming long past.  
  
He gave her a contemplative look, so similar to the one he’d given her under the stars that it made her chest ache. How could their circumstances be so different, so dire, so desperate, and yet Marcus Kane still looked at her as though she was brighter than the pinpoints of light that guided them home?  
  
“Finish that sentence, Abby,” he said. It was a request, not an order. There was nothing forceful in his tone. Instead, where determination might have been, there was only caution – careful, soft, as though stepping into this territory might set off a land mine.  
  
It was time to stop tiptoeing around it, she thought. For now, with both of them likely infected with whatever it was that was slowly making its was through the whole of their people, she thought she might be able to remove a brick or two from the wall she’d built.

  
Not to demolish it – she didn’t know if that was possible – but to at least give him a glimpse at the other side.  
  
Hands shaking, she took a shuddering breath.  
  
“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” she said, maintaining eye contact, heart pounding, hands shaking. It was such an innocent thing to say, but it was a betrayal of her code – her resolve – and it felt as sweet as it did sinful.  
  
His smile was bright, if small; now was not a time for laughter, for deeper confessions, for other things that lurked on the tips of their tongues and clawed at their throats, desperate for release. Now was the time for acknowledgement, a promise hidden in a smile, understanding masked with a quirk of lips.  
  
“Abby, I couldn’t survive this world without you in it.”  
  
He said it so easily that it sounded almost rehearsed, the only evidence of his nervousness shining through in the stiffness of his back, the way he shifted back and forth on his feet as he spoke.  
  
She opened her mouth to respond, readying something about how he still wasn’t going on the run, but he wouldn’t have to imagine that world because she wouldn’t be leaving him – she’d come back to him, because that was what they always did.

  
Even at the end of everything, they somehow found each other.  
  
She opened her mouth to say something that barely touched the surface of what she felt for him, but a centimeter deep was as far down as she could go when her daughter was coughing up blood and his son, for all intents and purposes, was little better off. But instead of saying that, when her lips parted, what emerged was a single loud, explosive cough.  
  
Abby knew there wasn’t anything _wrong_ almost instantly, although the force of the cough caused her to double over – her lungs weren’t burning, she didn’t have a fever – but if there had been any borders between her and her companion before, that sound seemed to have blown them down. Marcus all but sprinted to her, his expression changing to concerned in a fraction of a second, stopping only when he’d placed a protective hand on one of her shoulders.  
  
“Abby,” he said, shaking her a little as though the motion could prevent such a thing from happening again. “Are you all right?”  
  
There was something especially endearing about him like this. The pronounced line in the middle of his forehead when he was concentrating intensely on something made an appearance when he was deeply concerned, and although her throat burned a bit from the explosion, she found herself transfixed yet again by her proximity to him.  
  
“It was one cough, Marcus,” she said, unwilling to wave him away, not wanting to shatter whatever thing was holding his hand on her shoulder. “I’m fine.”  
  
His scowl became more pronounced, and she knew the day’s history was starting to seep back into the moment they’d created. How could he trust her, take her at her word, when she’d lied to him not two hours earlier?  
  
“You’d tell me,” he said softly, frown relaxing to perplexed concern, “if something was wrong.”  
  
Stomach flipping, she nodded. But how could she do that to him? Just like she couldn’t lose him and Clarke, she got the sense he felt the same about her and Bellamy.  
  
“Of course I would,” she said, hating herself for meaning it. “But it was just a cough.  
Nothing for you to worry about. Though I know you’re good at it.”  
  
He regarded her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not a laugh would be appropriate. In the end he settled for an amused smirk, though she got the sense he was biting back a chuckle.  
  
“Then you know I’m going to worry about it, regardless,” he said. “Just like I’ll worry about you when you go on this run.”  
  
_When_.  
  
He’d conceded without admitting defeat, given her her way without a trace of anger or reproach. There had been a time, long ago, when that wouldn’t have been an option. When they would have argued until their throats went raw, until their screams turned into croaks, until they were too exhausted to continue and parted ways full of a poisonous bitterness that infected them well into the sleepless night that followed.  
  
Instead of glaring at her as he’d once done, he regarded her with admiration, kindness, a kind of selfless caring that she thought she might have seen in someone else’s eyes once before the cruel, heartless world ripped him from her. If things were different – if the floor below them wasn’t filled with ailing patients, if half of their hearts weren’t trapped downstairs with the teenagers they claimed as their children – she might have laughed, because only the end of the world could be enough to bring them together when not long ago they’d seemed destined to do nothing but shove each other away.  
  
“You don’t have to worry,” she said, reaching up to cup the side of his face, to feel the warmth of his cheek beneath the sandpaper roughness of his salt and pepper beard. “Not about me. Save that for those who need it. Be here for them.”  
  
He leaned into her touch, gave a soft sigh as he recognized his words from her lips, content as her thumb traced over his cheek.  
  
“I assure you, I can do both.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was barely dawn when Abby found herself back in medical to go over any last minute details and advice with Jackson before heading out with Lincoln. She'd dozed fitfully for a couple of hours in the night after Marcus had unhappily conceded the argument, realising there was no way he was going to change her mind about going. She suspected she was running entirely on the nerves that wouldn't let her relax even for a moment. She trusted Lincoln to have her back out there beyond the walls, but it had been a long time since she'd ventured out at all. She worried that she might have become complacent; lost her edge.   
  
"Keep everyone hydrated, that's the most important thing," She said (for probably the hundredth time) to Jackson, who only nodded patiently and seriously, as if he didn't already know the importance of what she was saying. He'd done a great job of looking after the health of Arkadia before Abby's group had arrived, she reminded herself, but it was the fact that rarely had any of them heard of a viral outbreak like this _before_ the Turn, when they'd have been more equipped to deal with it, that made her feel guilty for leaving him.   
  
"Abby, it's okay," Jackson said, in his calming doctor's voice and putting a hand on her shoulder, "I can hold down the fort here."   
  
Abby tried to smile at him, but she knew it came out strained.   
  
"And I can help him," came her daughter's voice behind her, and Abby turned to look at her, stomach clenching when she took in the grey paleness of her skin, the sweat on her brow and the redness of her eyes. Clarke looked exhausted.   
  
"You should rest," Abby reached out and brushed a strand of limp blonde hair behind her ear.   
  
Clarke tried and failed to stifle a cough, "And I will. But Jackson knows I'm here if he needs me." She glanced over to where Bellamy was currently - thankfully - sleeping, "Though it's hard enough work making sure he stays in bed." She turned back to Abby, "Look, it makes sense for me to do it. I'm already sick. At least this way we aren't exposing anyone else."   
  
Ever the pragmatist, Abby thought. Her daughter had become someone people looked to, a leader, and Abby was forever conflicted between the pride she felt, and the sadness for the things that Clarke had been through in order to thrive in this world. She'd had to grow up far too fast and Abby wished so badly that she could have protected her from all of it.   
  
She reached out and drew Clarke into her arms, running a hand over her golden head. Clarke went willingly, though offered up a token protest,   
  
"Mom, what did I just say? We can't afford for you to get sick."   
  
Abby drew back, painting on a smile to mask her worry, even though she knew that Clarke would see right through it. She touched Clarke's clammy cheek: she _couldn't_ come back empty handed.   
  
Lincoln's head appeared around the door frame,   
  
"Abby? You ready?"   
  
She nodded, swallowing as her heart already picked up speed. God, she needed to get a grip if she was going to keep her wits about her out there. Abby met Jackson's eyes briefly, then Clarke's, finding warm encouragement and support mixed in with their expected worry, then followed Lincoln out into the pale dawn sunlight.   
  
He carried both their packs over to where their car was waiting by the front gates. It wasn't the only thing waiting for her. Marcus took her breath away for a moment; backlit as he was by the rising sun, it picked out the golden strands in his thick dark brown hair, the tanned bronze of his skin, the warmth in his eyes as she drew close enough to look into them. For a moment, he seemed to shine, and he was beautiful.   
  
But then Abby took in the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines on his face, and reality came crashing in. He was practically radiating anxiety, and all she wanted in that moment was to be able to soothe his fears away. She barely even registered Octavia and Lincoln sharing their own goodbye on the opposite side of the car as she stepped in closer and looked up at him, watched as his eyes flickered over her face like he was trying to memorise her features.   
  
They couldn't keep doing this, Abby thought. They couldn't keep saying these goodbyes that weren't goodbyes; these moments where the unspoken emotions between them were a tangible thing threatening to crush them both. A tiny part of her (that she was ashamed of) felt vindicated at least, that now Marcus understood what she went through every time he left the safety of the walls. One day the fear of losing one another would be too much and everything would come pouring out. Abby wasn't sure if she anticipated or dreaded that day.   
  
"I should be going with you," Marcus finally said, and his voice sounded so tired and defeated, as if he thought he was failing her somehow.   
  
"Hey," Abby took his hand, coaxing his fingers to twine with hers. He looked down and ran his thumb over her knuckles, "You're needed here, more than ever now that Roan is sick too. People are scared, Marcus, you need to keep them calm."   
  
He sighed heavily, still gazing at their joined hands, and shook his head a little, "I'm not the one people look to. I'm not Roan... or Clarke," He met her eye at that, "I'm not their leader."   
  
"I think you're needed more than you realise," Abby murmured, wishing he could see how important he was. It had been Marcus and his vision for the future that had secured them a place in Arkadia. He had a mind that enabled him to see the bigger picture, and a heart that had so much love to give, but he would never see it that way. "In so many ways."   
  
And then, as if to remove any ambiguity from her statement, Abby closed the small distance between them, stretched up on to her tiptoes, and hugged him. She heard a little hitch in his breathing and knew she'd taken him by surprise. She wondered if he could feel her heart pounding in her chest where they were pressed together, partly from the feeling of having him so close, partly out of fear; she'd never left the safe zone without him.   
  
Marcus only hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arms around her waist. They'd only done this a handful of times, every one a treasured moment in Abby's memory. The feeling of his strong arms around her, the heat of his body, and the earthy scent of him... it was the only thing that truly made her feel safe anymore.   
  
She felt him nuzzle into her neck, his beard prickling pleasantly against her skin, before she heard him whisper,   
  
"Please stay safe. Please come back to me."   
  
Abby's chest tightened painfully; she'd never wanted to throw caution to the wind and kiss him as much as she did right then and there, but if she started she wouldn't be able to stop and walk away from him. So she forced herself to give him a final squeeze and let him go (but couldn't help trailing a hand over the scruff on his cheek as she did so.) She'd been hoping to comfort both of them by hugging him, but it anything Marcus looked even more pained, like he was aching to take her back into his arms.   
  
"We'll be home by dark," Abby assured him, and reluctantly turned to open the car door. Lincoln was already inside, waiting on her. He raised his eyebrow at her when she sat down, but mercifully said nothing and just started the car. Abby dreaded to imagine the interrogation she'd have gotten if Raven had been sitting in his place.   
  
Marcus opened the gates for them and they held each other's gazes as Abby passed by him. She remembered his whispered words and offered him a last tremulous smile, then watched him in the rear view mirror before the car picked up speed and he disappeared from view.   
  
_6 months after the Turn_  
  
_If he said anything resembling "I told you so" to her, Abby swore it wouldn't be the hoard of walkers filing into the store that finished him off, she'd shoot Marcus Kane herself._  
  
_Of course their luck couldn't hold; of course she didn't listen to his perfectly reasoned argument that it wasn't worth the risk for something they definitely didn't need. She'd told him she would go in alone if he was so dead set against it, but he'd followed her anyway, and now she'd possibly killed them both. And truthfully, she new she'd only been so determined because he had vehemently told her not to._  
  
_No, they by no means needed art supplies, but Abby had thought - had hoped - they would bring Clarke a little joy in a world that had been devoid of such simple pleasures for months now. And so, because their quick supply run into the town had thus far drawn very little attention, because the store had seemed as deserted as the rest, and because Marcus was berating her for being overly sentimental, Abby had taken the chance._  
  
_Now they were trapped._  
  
_The door to the back office was already straining at its hinges as walkers pressed and clawed at it, continuing to pile up, if the escalating noise was anything to go by; the rattling groans and snapping of teeth becoming deafening._  
  
_Abby felt sick with fear, her heart pounding as she looked wildly around the small space for some kind of miracle solution to their predicament._  
  
_"We could... We could break the window..." Even as she said it, looking up at the narrow slit of dusty glass, she wasn't sure if she herself would fit through, let alone Marcus. He didn't even glance at her or the window, staring instead at the creaking door with a kind of grim resolve she didn't like at all; body taught, jaw clenched, and his machete held in a white knuckled grip._  
  
_"Marcus..." She reached out to touch his arm and realised she was shaking. He covered her hand with his free one,_  
  
_"Abby," He gave her a humourless, resigned smile, and it scared her more than the mass of undead on the other side of the door, "You're going to get out of here."_  
  
_His word choice did not escape her, "We are, Marcus." She said fiercely, stunned by the sad fondness that crept into his expression at that._  
  
_"If I can draw them to me, it'll give you a chance -"_  
  
_"No!"_  
  
_"There's no other way out, Abby." She hated the gentle defeat in his voice, would have preferred him to still be arguing with her._  
  
_"There has to be another way!" Her own voice had taken on a desperate pleading edge; for all that she'd spent most of the last six months fighting with him, Abby suddenly couldn't bear the thought of facing this world without Marcus Kane beside her. She'd never realised how much she relied upon him, how much she drew strength from him, until now. And here he was ready to sacrifice himself for her, thinking he was expendable, when she was the one who had got them into this._  
  
_"Then it should be me," She felt strangely calm, "I insisted on coming in here, it's my fault."_  
  
_"The others need you, Abby. You're a doctor. More importantly, you're a mother. They all look to you like a mother, not just Clarke."_  
  
_She realised with a start that he understood what had driven her into this store after all, and, though he'd tried to stop her, he didn't blame her. He'd only been trying to protect her. That was all he ever wanted to do, for all of them. And when Abby saw the fear and helplessness in his eyes, fear for her, she somehow understood that in keeping himself closed off he had been trying to protect himself too. From the pain of losing any of them._  
  
_"They need you too," She grabbed his hand, "I need you, Marcus. Please. We've only made it this far because of you."_  
  
_He could only stare at her with disbelieving eyes, shaking his head in unconscious denial, until the door cracked loudly, wood splintering, growls getting louder, and Abby pulled Marcus back, even though there was no where to go._  
  
_She was still clutching his hand, and he returned her hold, as she looked around desperately, trying to will her mind into an epiphany that could save them. They could stand on the desk, she thought as she looked at it, make their last stand from there, even though it probably wouldn't put them out of reach of clawing hands. They could push it back against the wall to stop themselves from being surrounded._  
  
_Or they could perch up on the filing cabinet, even though they would have to cram themselves up there, and fire down into the hoard until they ran out of bullets. It was the highest thing in the room that they could climb on..._  
  
_As she looked up, Abby's gaze landed on the linoleum ceiling._  
  
_"Marcus," She tugged on his hand until he was looking in the same direction, "If we could dislodge one of those tiles, could we climb up there?"_  
  
_When she turned her attention back to him, his eyes were alight with same desperate fervour as she felt,_  
  
_"We can damn well try."_  
  
_Hearts racing with adrenaline and the possibility of salvation, they climbed up on to the desk, and Marcus crouched, cupping his hands for Abby to place her foot into. She held onto his shoulders as he boosted her up, gasping as their balance wavered, but Marcus steadied her with a hand at her waist. She trusted him not to let her fall._  
  
_Abby shoved at the tile above her head and gave an exclamation of joy, that turned into a cough, as it moved and dust and grit fell from the dark gap in the ceiling. She shuddered at the thought of what could be up there, but any kind of insects or vermin were preferable to being eaten alive._  
  
_"Stand on my shoulders and pull yourself up!" Marcus instructed, shifting his legs and their combined weight, and Abby did as she was told, Marcus' hands guiding and helping her movements until, arms trembling, she heaved herself up. Immediately there was a cobweb in her face, and Abby suppressed the urge to recoil, instead she carefully twisted herself around so she could reach back down, just as the door finally gave and walkers started stumbling in._  
  
_"Marcus!" She yelled, panicked and terrified for him, "Marcus, come on!"_  
  
_He drew his gun and looked up at her with the same sad, resigned smile as before, and it felt like all the breath was knocked out of her; an angry sob was brewing in her throat._  
  
_"No!" She shouted over the snarling walkers trying to claw at his feet, "Don't you dare!_  
 _Marcus, I swear to God, if you don't get up here now, I will jump back down there with you!"_  
  
_It was that, not the walkers, that made his eyes widen in horror,_  
  
_"Don't be an idiot, Abby!" He ground out._  
  
_"You're an idiot if you think I'm leaving you!" She held out her arms, "Now, come on!"_  
  
_With a frustrated curse, Marcus handed her his gun first, then jumped to grab a hold of the ledge. Abby leaned out as much as she dared to get a hold of him under his arms, Marcus breathing heavily next to her ear, and pulled with all the strength left in her. She forced herself to look down at the mass of undead beneath them; if she lost her grip, that was what he would fall into._  
  
_He ended up half sprawled over her, head resting on her abdomen, as the two of them panted in the darkness. Abby still had her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, as if her body had not yet caught up with the fact that he was safe. Well, as safe as she was, provided the ceiling could hold their weight._  
  
_"No more self-sacrificing bullshit," She muttered, punching him feebly in the shoulder._  
  
_Marcus started shifting off of her, "Abby..."_  
  
_"No more," She repeated, "You don't get to make me care and then check out, understand?"_  
  
_He was quiet for a moment, and Abby wished she could see his face properly. "Understood."_  
  
_"Okay then. Let's go."_  
  
  
They had been driving for a couple of hours by the time Abby, glancing at the map, started to direct Lincoln towards the centre of town and he pulled over instead.   
  
"We go in on foot," He said, off her frown, "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."   
  
"Right," Abby got out of the car, taking a couple of deep breathes of fresh air and a sip of water, trying to still the nerves twisting her stomach into knots.   
  
She followed Lincoln as he started walking, concentrating on the weight of her weapons on her belt, her knife and gun that Marcus had given her and taught her to use. She'd watched Lincoln instruct Octavia in hand to hand combat many times by now, and had always meant to ask for some lessons herself. The less and less she went beyond the walls of Arkadia however, the more she regretted procrastinating. She made a note to ask him when they got back.   
  
The town had the same desolate, haunted feel that every other small rural settlement had these days. It was dusty and deserted, but for a couple of walkers meandering aimlessly. When they weren't part of a herd, or trying to eat something, Abby had seen them become slow, almost dormant. She and Lincoln took them out one by one, keeping their movements quiet so as not to stir the attention of all of them at once.   
  
Lincoln moved gracefully, like a big cat, all light steps and strong muscles. He made it look almost effortless. Abby didn't have the same power in her body, and Marcus had taught her to face walkers with that in mind. More often than not, she used their own weight and momentum against them; it was fairly easy to get them to lose their balance.   
  
It was her instruction they'd needed in the beginning, when learning which were the most vulnerable parts of the skull and the most effective way to stab them. Now, Abby took out her walker and felt the thin bone of the temple give way easily to her blade. She stepped back as she withdrew it to avoid the spray of blood and it slumped to the ground. It still filled her with nausea and sadness in equal measure, but Abby figured the day she felt nothing would be the day she lost a piece of her humanity.   
  
As it turned out, it wasn't hard to spot the pharmacy. It was a small town and most of the shops and buildings remained boarded up, seemingly untouched since society had first started to break down. If the pharmacy had what they needed, Abby wondered if it would be worth returning to see what else could be scavenged from the other buildings.   
  
Approaching the pharmacy, Lincoln took a crow bar out of his bag and began prying the planks of wood from the doorway, whilst Abby faced the street, watching his back. He paused every now and then to listen for movement from inside, but they heard nothing.   
  
He pried it all off, so they wouldn't be hindered if they needed to make a quick getaway, and together they turned on their flashlights and entered the darkened store. There was no movement; no sound but for their own breaking and footsteps, and Abby made immediately for the counter, climbing over it and shining her light into the storage room behind.   
  
"Abby, be careful." Lincoln whispered, but the dust, and more importantly the _stock_ , as far as Abby could see, remained undisturbed. It was a goldmine.   
  
"Oh my god," Abby could feel excitement and sheer disbelief bubbling up inside her, and she nearly laughed out loud, "About time we had some luck!"   
  
Her voice carried, probably too far, but Lincoln quickly joined her and, upon seeing the amount of medical supplies, his grin was bigger than any she'd ever seen on his face before.   
  
Together they raided the shelves, squinting to make out names and dosages in the torch light. Abby made for flu packs and anti-virals, painkillers and antibiotics, and their bags were quickly loaded down and shouldered. At about the same moment that she was thinking this had been far too easy, she heard the sounds of movement towards the front of the store and froze. Lincoln had heard it too, for his head had snapped to face that direction and his hand had flown to his knife, withdrawing it before Abby could even blink. She did the same, clenching her fist around the hilt to stop the trembling, and he caught her eye, gesturing to her to stay put whilst he crept away from her and towards the source of the noise.   
  
And then she was alone, struck by the urge to clap a hand over her mouth for fear that her breathing would give her away, straining to hear anything that might be happening. The minutes ticked by, and still Abby heard nothing. Her mind began playing out all the worst scenarios, and her heart felt as though it was about to burst out of her chest until she couldn't stand the waiting any longer. She wasn't about to hide back here if Lincoln needed her help.   
  
She tried to shake the fear from her limbs and took a deep breath, starting forward the way Lincoln went. The shop floor was as deserted and silent as it had been when they'd entered, and Abby risked hissing Lincoln's name, not surprised by the lack of reply, but heart still sinking nonetheless.   
  
Outside, the street was just as quiet; there was no sign of life that Abby could see. A cold wind blew fallen leaves over the ground and sent street signs creaking on their hinges, and she found herself turning on the spot at every little sound. She shivered and fought to control the panic threatening to overwhelm her, but it was impossible to deny one simple fact: if it was walkers, Abby would have heard something. Which meant it was something potentially much more dangerous...   
  
She suddenly heard running footsteps behind her, but before she could turn to face whoever it was, something hit her, a hard, solid blow to the back of her head. Pain bloomed briefly, she felt the distant sensation of falling, but then the world disappeared. 


	7. Chapter 7

They still weren't back.  
  
Marcus lingered by the community gates, no longer even trying to pretend he was doing anything other than watching for the first sign of Abby and Lincoln returning in the gathering dusk. Nearby, Octavia paced, growing more and more visibly agitated, and Marcus wasn't sure he'd be able to stop her if she decided she was done waiting around. He wasn't sure if he wouldn't join her, no matter what he'd said to her the night before about going out alone after dark.  
  
He'd barely been able to concentrate all day; had felt useless when faced with the increasing number of sick people confined to medical, and could only think about the glaring absence of one particular person.  
  
His worry for Abby was making him impossibly tense, all of his muscles coiled to take action where there was nothing to be done. He was trying desperately to ignore the churning in his stomach that had made him avoid food all day, and the sense foreboding that something had gone terribly wrong. He was torn between listening to his instincts, and acknowledging that his instincts were likely incredibly biased.  
  
Because he understood now: he was in love with Abby Griffin, and he was terrified of losing her.  
  
"We should be out there," Octavia stopped in front of him, and Marcus saw his own worry reflected back at him in her dark eyes, "You know we should. Something's wrong, I can feel it."  
  
One of them had to be sensible, Marcus told himself. One of them had to try and look at the situation realistically, look past their personal feelings, and remember all the reasons why Abby and Lincoln could be late. Supply runs, after all, often were planned to take longer than just a single day.  
  
"There are any number of reasons for why they aren't back yet," Marcus said, trying to sound calm and reasonable even as Octavia scoffed and stalked away again. He raised his voice a little, though she didn't go far, "It's happened plenty of times before. They might've had to take a detour, walkers or vehicles could've been blocking the road. Maybe they misjudged the time they needed, maybe they found more than they thought -"  
  
"And maybe they ran into other people, or they're hurt, or..." Octavia didn't have to say it; it clearly hurt for either of them to even think it, "If Lincoln thought it might take longer he would've told me."  
  
"Maybe he didn't want you to worry."  
  
"If that's the case, I'd say it had the exact opposite effect, don't you think?"  
  
Marcus couldn't argue with her there. He was finding it difficult to assuage Octavia's worry and stop her from going stir crazy when he himself was struggling with the same thing. All he could think about was every opportunity he'd missed to tell Abby how much he loved her; how fear and uncertainty had stopped him from taking her into his arms and kissing her breathless like he'd wanted to do for so long. And the way she'd looked at him before she left, the way she'd touched him... it was almost as if, impossibly, she might feel the same way. That she had been longing for him too. How much time had they wasted stuck on the cusp of something more? If she didn't come back, if he never saw her again, they would never have that chance.  
  
_No_ , there was too much pain and grief behind that thought, and he couldn't let it in or he would be paralysed. There was still an agonising ache in his chest though, building with every minute that went by and they did not appear outside the gates.  
  
"You can't expect me to just stay here and do nothing!" Octavia exploded suddenly, and Marcus knew, whereas his fear made him feel helpless, hers made her angry and drove her to recklessness. He also knew she wasn't only afraid for Lincoln, so he put a gentle hand on her shoulder, with a murmured, "Come on," and guided her in the direction of medical, to her brother. Neither of them would sleep that night; Marcus figured they might as well make themselves available to the people they had a chance of helping.  
  
Despite the late hour, there were several people lingering outside medical, all no doubt anxious for news about a loved one's condition. Clearly Jackson thought the virus contagious enough that he was no longer permitting visitors, in the hopes of containing it, Marcus assumed. Octavia strode right on through before he could voice any second thoughts or tell her to perhaps keep her distance, and when nobody stopped her, a couple of the crowd tried to follow her.  
  
"Wait, please," Marcus stood in front of the door and raised a placating hand, "I know you're worried, but we should try and limit who's exposed to this thing."  
  
"You let Octavia in!" Monty said, obviously worried about Harper.  
  
"And now I'm going to go and tell her the same thing."  
  
Once he was sure that they would remain outside, Marcus went in, but ended up lingering by the doorway surveying the room. The first thing he noticed was that the beds were all full and some people were camped on bed rolls or piles of blankets on the floor. He also noticed that Clarke and Bellamy both seemed to have given up their beds for other people. Despite the growing number inhabiting the small space though, it was fairly quiet, broken only by hushed words and coughing. People were weak and subdued, most simply trying to rest and snatch a couple hours of sleep.  
  
He watched Jackson and Clarke flitting around, taking temperatures and vitals, offering water, doing all they could to try and make people comfortable. Bellamy was talking to Octavia in the corner of the room when Marcus saw his hand shoot out to steady himself against the wall; the other covered his mouth as he was overcome with a coughing fit.  
  
He doubled over, clutching his stomach and falling to his knees as Octavia shouted his name in alarm, and Marcus - visions of Ilian filling his head and fearing the worst - was at their side in an instant, followed quickly by Clarke. Octavia had her arm around her brother, and each spasm that rocked through his frame shook her too. Then suddenly there was blood dripping through Bellamy's fingers, splattering to the floor. Sharp denial rose like bile in Marcus' throat, and he knelt too,  
  
"Breathe, Bellamy," He said urgently, as Octavia looked on with tears in her eyes; she was a like a little girl in that moment, terrified of losing her big brother.  
  
Bellamy finally stopped coughing and gasped for breath, the red staining his lips stark against the pallor of his skin.  
  
"You shouldn't be so close," Clarke murmured faintly; she looked lost.  
  
"You think we care about that?" Octavia shot back, and Clarke didn't try to argue further, most likely she didn't have the energy.  
  
Roan seemed to come to the same conclusion when he appeared, hovering over her,  
  
"And you shouldn't be wearing yourself down." He said, tugging her to her feet, "There's only so much you can do, Clarke."  
  
She seemed to sag at his words, her legs barely able to hold her weight anymore, but Roan steadied her and Clarke seemed openly grateful for the support; Marcus had noticed they were good at that, the two of them, one unconsciously adjusting to support the other if needed with the responsibilities of leadership. They had an unspoken understanding that had come easier and quicker to them than it had for he and Abby, a balance that Marcus was lucky enough to have found with her, to have someone to lean on and share the weight of difficult decisions. And, much like Marcus and Abby, it would be fine-tuned with time and familiarity.  
  
"I have to do something," Clarke gritted out, and the look on Roan's face was the one that seemed only ever reserved for her: torn between fondness, amusement and frustration.  
  
"What our people need is reassurance," Roan said, then he looked at Marcus, "Kane can give them that."  
  
“Um,” Marcus was startled by the conviction in Roan's voice, the sudden faith and trust that he so rarely bestowed, “I'm not sure how... I'm not their leader.”  
  
“They look to you,” Roan insisted, and Marcus was reminded of Abby's parting words to him: _I think you're needed more than you realise, in so many ways_ . “They're your people now too.”  
  
Well, Marcus thought, with a wry smile, it hadn't always been that way.  
  
_18 months after the Turn_  
  
_They had been on the road and without food for days when Lincoln first approached them. The skies had opened the night before, and at first it was a blessed relief to their parched mouths and tired, dehydrated bodies. Raven and Clarke had laid down in the rain, laughing for the first time in God knows how long, and the sound of it had been enough to lighten Marcus' heart just a little. Abby's soft smile as she watched her daughter, and the way she closed her eyes and tilted her face up to feel the rain, was everything. Even Thelonious, mostly silent and lost in his own grief these days, seemed to come out of his shell a little, looking around and blinking water out of his eyes._  
  
_But soon the downpour was turning into an actual storm and they'd had to run for cover. They took shelter in an old, decrepit barn that Marcus had clocked earlier whilst scouring the woods for sources of food, and the whole structure creaked and groaned like any moment the storm outside would cause the whole thing to collapse on top of them. The walkers must have seen them enter, and the wind and rain disguised the noise of them gathering until the old wooden doors were suddenly heaving, threatening to buckle._  
  
_Bellamy had thrown himself at the doors to try and keep them closed, and everyone else followed suit, pushing with all the collective strength they had left, feet slipping as they tried to brace themselves on the muddy ground, muscles burning with the effort. Marcus was squeezed between Abby and Octavia, and their laboured breathing and breathless sobs mixed into the cacophony of the walker's snarls and the storm raging all around them all night._  
  
_Marcus didn't remember when it ended; when the weather grew violent enough that the walkers were scattered about or pinned down by debris, or when the sun rose, but suddenly there was light streaming in through the broken wooden boards, and Abby was sagged against him, practically asleep on her feet. He had no idea how he was still standing._  
  
_Octavia and Raven, who were somehow still capable of functioning, ventured outside to survey the damage and put down the few remaining walkers whilst the rest of them collapsed in an exhausted heap. Marcus let the others rest, taking first watch, waiting for the girls to return and trying to ignore the sharp stabs of hunger in his empty stomach._  
  
_Marcus watched his little family sleep and allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief for a moment that they had made through one more night. There was a voice in the back of his head getting louder and louder each day they were out there on the road, exposed and weak, saying that he wasn't doing enough, he wasn't trying hard enough to provide for them and keep them safe._  
  
_Abby stirred then, blinking slowly and meeting his own tired gaze, and it seemed impossibly as though his thoughts had woken her when she said quietly,_  
  
_“You're doing everything you can.”_  
  
_No, she hadn't read his mind, she could just read him that well._  
  
_He opened his mouth to reply, but Octavia and Raven interrupted the moment, returning from their exploration outside. They weren't alone._  
  
_A young, well-muscled man stood between them with his hands raised as the girls kept their guns carefully trained on him. His dark skin, his jeans, shirt and jacket were all clean of the blood, dirt and grime that covered the rest of them; it told Marcus that this person, whoever he was, had some kind of camp or settlement somewhere nearby._  
  
_He leapt to his feet and drew his gun, and in the corner of his eye he saw Abby and_  
_Thelonious stand up too. The man didn't even flinch, but Octavia took a hand off her weapon to raise it, palm outward,_  
  
_“Wait! He approached us outside, he just wants to talk!”_  
  
_“Who are you and what do you want from us?” Marcus' voice was cold, uncompromising._  
  
_“Octavia, what the hell? Get away from him!” Great, Bellamy was awake and being overprotective, naturally, with Clarke frowning next to him._  
  
_“He's not here to hurt us, Bell, if he wanted to he could've easily snuck up on me and Raven.”_  
_Octavia exchanged a look with the stranger, who nodded in thanks. The exchange gave Marcus pause, his suspicion fading a little, replaced with curiosity. Octavia did not trust easily; she was perhaps more wary and hostile than any of them. This stranger had come with them calmly, waiting patiently to speak rather than interrupting or blurting out explanations. As if he was used to this kind of reception all the time._  
  
_“We can't trust him, Marcus,” Thelonious spoke up, his voice hoarse from lack of use; he shook his head warningly when Marcus looked at him._  
  
_Marcus eyes met Abby's, stood tense and quiet next to her daughter. She raised her eyebrows a little and titled her head towards the stranger, an unspoken signal that she wanted to know what he had to say._  
  
_“Who are you and what do you want?” Marcus repeated, more measured this time._  
  
_“My name is Lincoln,” the man said, calm and controlled, “And I come from a place, a community. I think you all could have a place with us. I think we could help each other.”_  
  
_So Lincoln told them about Arkadia; how they had people, walls, supplies, safety. How the world was almost as it was and how they wanted to rebuild civilisation, society._  
  
_“To do that,” He said, “Our greatest resource is people. Which is why we need you. There are people in Arkadia who have been there since everything fell apart. They don't know what the world is like now. But you've been out here, and you know how to survive. I'm offering you a chance to live.”_  
  
_It sounded too good to be true. It sounded like a trap, if Marcus was honest with himself, but he looked around at his family and, though he saw mistrust, he also saw hope on their faces. Abby's and Octavia's in particular, but then Abby was always the one to hope. Clarke and Raven looked skeptcial, and Bellamy was still clenching his jaw at the way Octavia seemed to believe Lincoln. Thelonious looked twitchy._  
  
_“Look, all I'm asking is that you come take a look. You're under no obligation to stay,”_  
_Lincoln finished, “And if you still don't want to come, I understand. And I'll leave quietly.”_  
  
_Marcus exchanged another look with Abby that was still hopelessly undecided, and saw Clarke and Bellamy do the same. Bellamy turned then, strode over to Lincoln, and punched him – hard. Everybody jumped, startled, and Lincoln fell to the floor unconscious._  
  
_“Was that really necessary?” Marcus ground out, irritated, just as Octavia angrily yelled her brother's name._  
  
_Clarke sighed, "Just so we're clear,” She said to Bellamy, “That look was not a 'let's attack that man' look. It was a 'he seems like an okay guy to me' look."_  
  
_Once again, Marcus wondered exactly how often Lincoln had gone through this before when he woke up barely harbouring any resentment for being knocked out cold, tied up, and having his things rifled through. Marcus felt worse about it than Lincoln, who seemed to him to be either a genuinely decent person, or an extraordinarily good liar._  
  
_Still, their suspicion was thrown back at them when they eventually let Lincoln lead them to an RV he'd had hidden away nearby, and drive them up to Arkadia. It was like walking into a dream; it was the kind of gated, suburban community – with huge houses, white picket fences, and immaculate lawns – that Marcus would never have dreamt of affording in the old world. There were people laughing, children playing... Living here, Marcus thought, you could convince yourself that this was the reality, and that outside the walls was just a horrible nightmare._  
  
_Until they confiscated their weapons and held their own on them, despite Lincoln's protests. The people of Arkadia seemed to be looking at them as though they were wild animals that could attack at any moment. Marcus supposed, looking down at his own filthy, bloodstained clothing, that was probably what they looked like. And smelled like._  
  
_Roan came striding up to them then, all arrogance in his bearing, but with the sharp glint of intelligence in his eyes as he regarded them. He turned to Lincoln,_  
  
_“I thought I told you not to bring anyone else in? To stop looking. You can't trust people anymore, Lincoln, and now they know where we live.”_  
  
_Marcus felt Bellamy and Octavia bristle on either side of him, gearing themselves up for a fight; unarmed and vastly outnumbered, it wasn't difficult to see how that would turn out. Slowly and subtly, he reached out a hand to both of them, trying to reassure them through the smallest of touches._  
  
_“I understand your need for caution,” He said to Roan, looking the other man directly in the eye, “I even appreciate it. We treated Lincoln the same way when he decided to approach us. He took a risk, we could have killed him.”_  
  
_“But you didn't,” Roan said, his tone neutral and unreadable._  
  
_“We didn't.” Marcus glanced at Lincoln, who gave him the barest of nods. Encouraged, he continued, “Lincoln believed we could be an asset to you, to your community. I'm hoping you'll give us a chance to prove it.”_  
  
_Roan was quiet for a moment, considering gaze flitting over each one of them in turn, before returning it to Marcus. He gestured to his armed men,_  
  
_“You understand I have to take precautions.”_  
  
_“Of course.” Marcus squeezed Octavia's arm warningly and she glared at him._  
  
_All they had to do was convince Roan that none of them would lose their minds and kill everyone. They had their work cut out for them._  
  
They would get through this, Marcus told himself, reaching out to place a hand on Roan's shoulder, as they had gotten through everything else. Abby would come through; Marcus couldn't contemplate a future where she wouldn't return to him, or where this small family they'd found in each other had come so far only to lose each other this way. The family that was slowly growing, letting in new people whether they wanted to or not, just as it had been for Marcus from the beginning. He'd tried not to care, tried to distance himself, but he'd grown to love Bellamy, Octavia, Clarke and Raven like they were his own children. He felt like he'd lost a brother when Thelonious was no longer recognisable to him. And Abby... The world felt intrinsically _wrong_ without her by his side.  
  
He nodded to them all and left them to go outside. He was crowded and bombarded with questions as soon as he emerged.  
  
“Hey, hey!” He raised his voice, trying to make himself heard, gesturing for quiet, “I know you're all worried. I know there are people inside that you want to see. They're being looked after, I _promise_ you, but we have to keep this thing contained until the run team returns with medicine.”  
  
“But weren't they supposed to be back by now?” Monty asked, brows knit with worry. Marcus noticed Raven approaching from the back of the crowd, and as he caught her eye briefly, he could tell from her frown that she was silently asking him what was going on.  
  
“We can only ever estimate how long these things will take,” Marcus told them, trying to instil some conviction that he did not feel into his voice, “Run teams come back late all the time. There's no need to worry.”  
  
“Yet...” John Murphy said grimly. This was followed by more discontented muttering, but the crowd dispersed a little, lingering in small huddled groups instead, unable to enter yet unwilling to leave their loved ones and go home. Raven pushed through to the front,  
  
“You believe anything you just said?” She murmured when she was close enough not to be heard. Marcus didn't want to lie to her, he owed her better than that. Apparently she could read the answer on his face, “Shit... Should we be worried?”  
  
Marcus had been worried from the moment Abby had announced her intention to go; terror had been gnawing at him since they'd failed to come back. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, and looked out in the direction of the gates despite himself.  
  
“If they're not back by dawn, we'll go out and find them.”  
  
A determined look settled on Raven's face, one that Marcus had learned meant she was on a mission and could not be stopped. Both tried not to let themselves think about the fact that there might not be anything left to find. 


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing she glimpsed when she awoke was darkness.

It wasn’t complete – daylight formed chinks in its armor, filtering through the cloth that covered her head – but it was absolute enough to make her pulse quicken, to make her stomach lurch. Wherever she was, she was moving. The telltale sound of an engine purred in the background, sinister, and any sense of direction she might have had was utterly lost. The air around her felt thick, almost impossible to breathe, and beads of sweat dripped down her forehead as the cloth shuddered with every inhale and exhale. She was seated upright, her back against cool metal that did nothing to dispense of the heat.

The next thing she felt was rope, coarse and itchy, taut, digging into the skin on the back of her wrists. Then came a sense of restraint – or rather, that she was _being_ restrained – as she realized she couldn’t free her hands from the grip of that horrible binding. It almost felt as though the more she struggled, the tighter it held her.

A dull pain thrummed in the back of her head, masking memory, and it took her a few moments to remember how she’d ended up here. She recalled leaving for the run, and the moments before stepping into the car, in excruciating detail; they were vivid right down to the sensation of Marcus’ breath on her neck, the warmth that radiated from his arms as he held her. She remembered finding the medicine, the sheer thrill that coursed through her when she realized they could save everyone – that for once, they’d return with salvation in their hands and hearts, good news surpassing pitfalls.

And with a sharp throb, there it was: the thing she’d been forgetting.

“Lincoln?” she said, approaching hope with caution. Just because she was here didn’t mean he was, too. If they were lucky, he’d gotten away with his share of the medicine before whomever was driving this car snatched him, too. Her heart jumped when she considered it. She hadn’t been lucky enough to make it, but as long as he had, life would go on. Their people would survive.

As quickly as her hopes had risen, they fell.

“Abby?” she heard someone say, muffled, his soft tone unmistakable. _No. Not you, too._

“Lincoln,” she breathed, using what little air was left in her lungs, nearly choking on the stagnant air. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m tied up.”

“Me, too,” she responded.

Quiet, for a moment, as they came to terms with the impossibility of their situation. Quiet just long enough to panic, just long enough for their hands to shake and breaths to shorten. Of all the awful things that happened to her since the world ended, being kidnapped just before she could save her daughter was the cruelest of all.

_Hold on, Clarke. Please hold on._

“Did they take the medicine?” Abby asked.

“They took mine,” Lincoln said, “before they knocked me out.”

“So it’s here,” Abby said, a plan beginning to take shape. If they’d taken the medicine, if it was in the back of this car, if she could figure out a way to take this goddamn rope off her hands and this goddamn bag off her head…

But who was to say she’d have to do all the work herself? There was something to be said for creating a diversion, for being a distraction, for playing a role just long enough to get her way. And right now, what she needed was to be someone else: someone terrified not of what came next for her child, but of what came next for _herself_.

So Abby Griffin took a deep breath, steeled her nerves, and let out a shrill, high-pitched scream.

The noise came from somewhere at the core of her, a place overgrown with exhaustion and terror and despair at their awful situation and the awful timing of their kidnapping. It was raw, animalistic, bordering on unhinged, and her fingers curled into fists as she pushed it up her throat and out of her mouth, pausing only to suck in loud gasps of air. Goosebumps spread over her skin as she contemplated what was an act and what rang true: how much of this discordant shrill was her own pain?

“Abby!” Lincoln shouted. For a heartbeat, she felt guilt – with no time to waste and verbalizing her plan a gigantic risk, telling Lincoln she was safe was both unwise and impossible. But that didn’t stop her from feeling badly: deceiving anyone was against her nature, and for someone as kind and gentle as him, the thought that she could be being tortured right next to him and he was unable to stop it…it would haunt him no matter if it was real or fake.

Abby continued shrieking, desperate, wondering if a barrier might separate her from the drivers of the vehicle. If they were in some kind of truck, a semi, maybe, would they still be able to hear her? Or was she torturing both herself and her companion for no reason?

Her throat rapidly going raw, she was relieved to feel the truck lurch to a stop, a jolt sending her careening back against the rock-solid side of the vehicle. She hit the exact place where her head ached most, where she’d been knocked unconscious, and the whimper that escaped her was more real than fabricated.

More light flooded the area as she heard a door being opened, and she realized the show was far from over now that she’d gotten what she wanted. Breathing loudly and shallowly, her fingers already trembling from the exertion of her screams, it occurred to her that she might have the desired effect on their kidnapper without putting forth too much of an effort at all.

Lincoln continued trying in vain to talk to her, to discern whether she was okay, and that familiar flame of remorse burned inside her. When this was over, she would give him a week – hell, two weeks – off. Let him recuperate and rest with Octavia, after all he’d been through. God only knew he deserved it.

Shuffling footsteps echoed around the place of their captivity, and Abby readied herself for what came next. For what she’d have to do, once those footsteps reached her. Paradoxical, she thought, that in acting her weakest she would have to be her strongest.

The footsteps came closer, almost directly in front of her, and she realized she’d made an error. A foolish, immature error.

Who was to say her life mattered to them?

If they only needed one of them, between her and Lincoln…he was stronger, faster, more equipped for survival in this world. Her appearance wouldn’t betray her medical expertise, and right now, she looked more like a liability than an asset.

She hadn’t considered that she might soon have a gun to her head instead of a clear line of sight and a path to her daughter’s salvation.

With the sudden understanding of her potential fate and a shadow over the light she’d once seen, Abby closed her eyes and began visualizing the people she loved.

The people she’d lose, if her plan failed.

The people she hoped, somehow, Lincoln would be able to save.

Clarke, smiling as she sketched in her well-worn notebook. The way her hair glimmered gold in the sunlight, her ocean-blue eyes, ever the image of her father.

Marcus, gazing at her under the stars, offering her his jacket. The intoxicating sensation of being near to him, all the puzzle pieces of survival clicking into place when she was by his side.

Raven wrenching away in her workshop, her fingers dripping with grease, cracking a joke from under the hood of a barely-working car. The way her smirk never failed to make Abby smile, even when it accompanied a barb at her expense.

 _May we meet again,_ she thought, adopting their old greeting, waiting for the inevitable.

And last, Jake – the man with whom she hoped she’d be reunited if this escapade ended in colossal failure rather than success, rather than survival.

Though the bag muffled sound, she heard no unmistakable clicking of a gun to her head. There was nothing to indicate she was in danger, other than the shadow that blocked the light, and optimism began to seep down and intermix with her despair. Maybe, when she thought everything might have gone wrong, something decided to go right. Just this once, she could use a triumph.

And then, as though the person standing in front of her had heard her thoughts, they shifted, letting light back into the room as the bag was pulled from her head.

The brilliant light of late afternoon was too much for her at first glance, and she squinted to discern any shapes, to make the pain fade away, to make her eyes stop burning. Still breathing heavily, still intent on maintaining her charade, she began to adjust. Lincoln sat opposite her, leaning against the side of what seemed to be an old, stripped Airstream trailer. The rest of the room was empty, save for a few abandoned, dusty trinkets and an empty water bottle. Her heart sank – the medicines were nowhere to be found.

“Abby,” a voice said, sickly smooth, measured. Goosebumps prickled on her skin: she knew that voice. She knew that voice, because she’d long ago convinced herself she’d never have to hear it again. That what was done was done, that the right choice wasn’t always the easy one to make, that necessity and safety and survival of their people would come first, always.

She heard that voice in her nightmares.

Turning her head, she saw him – the man she and Marcus had assumed was dead. The man it would have been better for them, she knew, if he was dead. He stood there with a bemused expression, scowling, unfazed by her act because he knew it was just that: an act.

“Thelonious?” Abby said, and just as the truck had stopped, the world itself paused in its rotation.

“Abby,” he said, his expression unchanging. She knew he was remembering the last time they’d seen each other, the seconds just before the gates of Arkadia were closed to him forever. Though he appeared unfazed, something – regret, perhaps? – stirred in his stare. For him, she felt no sympathy. What he’d done was heartless. And as for kidnapping her and Lincoln…what was he planning? Why do this now?

“It’s been a long time,” he continued, conversational. “You look well.”

Abby clenched her jaw. “What do you want from us? Why did you take our supplies?”

Thelonious gave an icy chill of a chuckle, and she felt dread coil in her stomach. She stole a glance at the unconscious boy opposite her, taking in his slumped form leaning against the side of the trailer, and wondered just how deeply they were caught in Thelonious Jaha’s web of vengeance.

“All in good time,” he responded. “I can’t answer those questions now, but I suspect you already know the answers. You’re smart, Abby. Smarter than most in Arkadia.”

 _Smart enough to know Roan should have done away with you when he had the chance._ She wouldn’t – couldn’t – blame Marcus for taking the path of peace, for doing what he thought was right, for choosing the possibility of life over the certainty of death. Maybe he’d hoped that the man he knew, the man he once looked up to, was still trapped inside that ruthless shell of a former politician, waiting for the right moment to break free. Now, looking at the man they’d once known, Abby knew that wasn’t the case.

Thelonious Jaha, as Marcus Kane had once known him, was gone forever. This was not the man who saved them; this was the man who damn well could be their destruction.

“I’m smart enough to know you didn’t just want the medicine,” Abby retorted. “If you did, you would have left us behind.”

Thelonious cocked an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching into an appreciative half-smirk. “Correct,” he said. “As much of a pity as it is about Clarke and Bellamy…”

Her blood ran cold. How long had he been spying on Arkadia? How much did he know about them, catalogued about their struggles and shortages? How had they never found him monitoring them? Granted, they’d had bigger worries than whether Thelonious Jaha was lurking in the woods outside the safe zone. But in hindsight, it seemed careless that they hadn’t even had so much as a discussion about it.

“Clarke and Bellamy are going to be _fine_ ,” Abby said, firm, unwilling to betray her own uncertainty. “Because you’re going to let us go, and you’re going to give us back the medicine you stole.”

Thelonious shook his head. “I don’t think you know that, Abby. In fact, the only thing you are sure of is that Clarke’s time is running out, isn’t it? That you’d do anything in your power to save her?”

There was something ominous about the way he said it – _anything in your power_. An edge of desperation, a glimmer in his dark eyes, a twitch of his fingers as he leaned closer to her. She remembered what had made him so dangerous in the first place: not only his influence, not only his mentality, but his ability to make people believe they were in the right by doing absolute wrong.

“Say what you’re going to say,” Abby spat, nerves shot, breath short, “and get it over with.”

A flash of white teeth as he gave a low laugh, apparently amused by her rebellion.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he remarked. “Still believing in the good fight, I see. Believing that there are lines between right and wrong. There is no right and wrong anymore, Abby. There’s only survival.”

“What you, Roan, and Marcus did was unjust,” he continued, his tone taking on a bitter edge. “I made the same choice any of you would have made, and I was exiled for it. You left me to die.”

“We followed the law,” Abby corrected him. “Amended it for your sake. Roan wanted you dead, Thelonious, and you would’ve been if Marcus hadn’t intervened.”

Her companion was quiet for a few moments, as if absorbing information she knew he already understood. After all, that Marcus Kane spared his life was all but common knowledge: after what he’d done, she would have been fine with Roan having his way.

“Even so,” Thelonious said, “it shouldn’t have come to that. You left me without supplies, without a means of survival. All for making a choice that saved lives.”

“You sacrificed an _innocent_ boy to the walkers so you could survive,” Abby corrected him, jaw clenched. “And you see that as saving lives?”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Thelonious said. “I came back with the promised supplies, didn’t I?”

Appalled, Abby could only gape at him, keeping her mouth closed with great difficulty.

“So what do you want, Thelonious? An apology? You won’t get one.”

He stood, towering over her as she sat on the floor. Abby hated being stared down at like this, especially from a man who was beneath even the lowest of scum on this hellacious planet.

“I don’t want an apology,” he said. “But I want to re-balance the scales. And if Roan and Marcus won’t agree to do that, we’ll have to take matters into our own hands.”

 _We. Our._ So now, not only did they have to deal with Thelonious all over again, but he’d managed to brainwash another easily influenced group who believed his drivel about “saving the many by sacrificing the few.” For him, she felt nothing. For his clueless followers, she felt pity. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that he’d been one of Arkadia’s most influential leaders, and they’d been none the wiser to his heartless schemes.

“And how are you planning to do that?” Abby said, thinking it would be best to keep him talking. To force him to reveal as much of his plan as she could coerce him to share, and then to figure out a means of escape once she had the necessary information to prevent an attack.

Because with ammunition the way it was, she got the feeling it would be a swift battle, ending decisively against Arkadia’s interests.

“Two of Arkadia’s doctors are trapped outside the walls, with an outbreak running rampant,” he said, leaning back a little, wearing a smug smirk. “Not to mention the lack of medicine and ammunition from which you’ve suffered. Put simply, I don’t mean to _negotiate_ for the safety of my people.”

“At the expense of mine,” Abby surmised, ending her sentence with a pronounced cough – a sound different than the one she’d made with Marcus at her side, a gesture that brought bitterness to her tongue and a red-hot ache searing through her lungs. Things were as wrong now as they had been perfectly fine when Marcus was by her side, and when she swallowed, a slice of pain slid down her throat. Given that Thelonious remained unflinching, she guessed he’d taken a dose of the antibiotics they’d scavenged in the college.

“I’m not completely heartless, Abby,” Thelonious said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll give your people a choice.”

Despite the discomfort she felt, Abby had to ask. “Which is?”

“Leave, or be killed,” he said plainly, with the smoothness of a man who’d long ago placed the finishing touches on his plan. “If they’re smart, they’ll choose to leave peacefully. If not…we’re prepared to fight, though I don’t expect the battle to be long.”

Across the room, Lincoln stirred - even Jaha's minions' blows couldn't keep him down for long.

“There doesn’t have to be a battle,” he said, his voice coated with pain and exhaustion. “We can coexist, Jaha. We can make things work between our groups.”

Inwardly, Abby cringed. As much as she desired peace, she doubted they’d be able to find it with Thelonious Jaha standing at their gates, delivering them a foul ultimatum. But she respected the boy for his effort: if anyone would try to create peace in such a time of constant, unending trial, it would be Lincoln Grounder.

“The time for that has passed,” Thelonious said, following Abby’s prediction. “Your people made a choice. And now, as their actions taught me, all choices have consequences.”

Frowning, unable to comprehend the madness that drove Thelonious forward, Lincoln tried again. “People are a valuable asset to have, now,” he said. “Laying waste to Arkadia instead of negotiating won’t get you anywhere.”

“It’ll get us walls,” Thelonious countered. “Houses. Food. Peace will only get us killed.”

All or nothing, she thought. A mentality that would result in senseless deaths, a war Arkadia had no reasonable way of fighting. What good were knives and empty pistols against rifles and shotguns? How could they prepare for a war that came unannounced, declaring itself the owner of their home from the moment it knocked on the door?

She thought of Marcus, who would undoubtedly be on the front lines, doing his damnedest to spark a peace that would never catch fire. She thought of Clarke, suffering in her illness, the sparkle of her vitality dulled by the disease. She thought of Raven, sprinting from gunfire, given too little time to formulate a counterattack.

She swallowed hard, and pain erupted through her throat. With no time to worry about herself, she decided to adopt Lincoln’s tactics.

“Thelonious, think about what you’re doing,” she said. “Marcus will be willing to talk to you. To work something out. No one has to die today.”

He shook his head, his rueful smirk returning. “Marcus cannot fix what has already been broken. Soon, he’ll know what it’s like to make the choice between one life, and hundreds.”

The sound of a click as another person entered the trailer – a woman with dark hair and black eyes, half of her hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore a jacket made of red leather with black paneling on the seams, an imposing figure with red lips and ivory skin. When she spoke, her words were forcefully animated, as if it took great strength for her to find inflection in her voice.

“Thelonious,” she said. “What are you doing? We need to take them to the gates. We must complete our mission.”

From those three sentences, Abby made a conclusion: Thelonious Jaha might have been the messenger, but he was certainly not the one in charge. He was nothing more than a mouthpiece for this woman, a mystery in glowing red, her stare hollow as she fixed her gaze on each of the prisoners in turn.

“You are confident they’ll give up their home for them?” she asked.

Thelonious, moving from before Abby to stand next to his comrade, agreed wholeheartedly.

“He’s one of the medics. And she’s their best doctor. Marcus won’t let anything happen to her,” he said, inclining his head in Abby’s direction. Though such an assumption typically would have made her flush – God only knew how many times the kids had made similar statements about the relationship between her and Marcus Kane – this time, it made her fists clench. Would he give up his home for her safety? Would he compromise the safety of their people for her own?

Did she _want_ him to?

Arkadia couldn’t fight a war without Roan, without Bellamy, without – as much as she hated thinking about it – Clarke. Marcus was adept at many things, but developing battle plans on the spot was not one of them. Much like Lincoln, when given the choice he preferred to resolve disputes with words, not fists.

If they could get the medicine to Clarke, to Bellamy, to those who needed it most…her own life was an afterthought.

“You’re willing to place the outcome of the mission on one man’s emotions?” the woman said, tilting her head to the side, her arms folded in front of her. “Does he feel for her so deeply that he would give up his safety?”

“Yes,” Thelonious answered without hesitation. “Marcus thinks little of his own life, but would die for her, Alie. Our mission is proceeding as planned.”

_Kane would die for her._

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He had to survive, to rebuild their home, to take back what was theirs. He had to survive, to take care of Clarke and Bellamy and Octavia and Jackson and everyone Abby adored with every piece of her broken heart. He couldn’t, because she couldn’t imagine a hopeless world without Marcus Kane’s warm smile, without his laugh, without his deep brown eyes.

Just because he _would_ die for her, didn’t mean he should.

“Good,” the woman – Alie – said, regarding Abby with a kind of detached puzzlement. “Let us proceed to Arkadia, then. There is no time to waste, Thelonious.”

He nodded, walking back to Abby, grabbing the bag that would go back over her head and make the world go dark again. After Alie had left the room, he leaned in, readying the cloth to be placed over her once more.

“I didn’t want it to be you,” he said quietly, his words meant only for her to hear. “If you cooperate, it won’t be.”

Abby’s response was instinct, driven by the thought of losing the man she cared for so deeply it threated to tear her apart from the inside out, to split her at the seams, to force unrehearsed screams from her throat and sweat to drip down her brow.

“Go to hell.”

Then the bag was shoved over her head again, her vision obscured, her throat aching.

In the blazing afternoon sun, each turn of the trailer’s wheels spun them closer to war.

 

***

 

Kneeling on the asphalt of what had once been the road into the Arkadia Commons subdivision with a gun trained on the back of her head and a wad of thick cloth stuffed in her mouth, Abby Griffin waited for death.

Thelonious’ henchmen had grabbed her and Lincoln from the trailer after a decent drive – she assumed about a half-hour – and unceremoniously shoved them to the ground as soon as they’d been released into the open air. Only once they’d relinquished control and been forced to kneel were the bags over their heads removed.

As much as she’d longed for home, seeing it like this filled her with cold pinpricks of dread, as though she’d been outside during winter for too long. It was a numbing terror that spread through her, immobilizing her, freezing her under the blazing summer sun.

Gunshots – not directed at her, only meant to summon the Arkadia citizenry to the walls – exploded through the air, and Thelonious knelt in front of her for what she hoped was the last time.

“If he cooperates, Kane won’t be harmed,” he said. “But if he tries to fight back…we’ll be forced to retaliate.”

With her hands tied and words placated by fabric, Abby could only dream of punching him, of spitting in his face. They day would come, she believed, when Thelonious Jaha would get his due. But that wouldn’t save her people today. It wouldn’t save Marcus, it wouldn’t save Raven, it wouldn’t save Clarke.

“Abby!” she heard Marcus shout, and the ice expanding inside her clutched her heart.

He began darting forward, his fingers curled through the chain links of the fence. Sweat poured down her forehead, her hands shaking inside a prison of rope, and it took every ounce of effort in her to look Marcus Kane in his despairing eyes.

If the next thing that happened was the firing of a gunshot, she wanted his face to be the last thing she saw.

As it happened, the next thing that happened was the firing of a shot, but it didn’t come close to her – it flew just above Marcus’ head, barely missing his dark, loose waves. He froze, his fingers still clenching the metal as though it were her hands, as though he could will himself through the barrier with nothing but the force of his grip.

“Don’t unlock the gate,” Thelonious ordered. “If I see anyone trying to escape, one of the prisoners will be shot.”

The sun seemed to get warmer, her body trembled, her back ached. Kneeling on black pavement with dusty cars on either side of her, Lincoln a few feet to her right, she waged war against her gag reflex. Swallowing hard, bringing about another round of pain, her vision blurred and refocused again.

“Thelonious,” Marcus said, still staring at Abby. “Take it easy.”

The woman by Thelonious’ side tilted her head again. Thelonious glanced at her. Marcus remained unable to look away from Abby. Abby stared at him. Octavia tightened her grip on her stolen gun.

The world stopped turning.

“I’m not here to talk, Marcus,” Thelonious said. “The time for discussion ended when you decided I was unworthy of living in your community.”

Abby felt the gun trained on her as though it radiated heat, pain blossoming in the back of her head as though the man behind her had pulled the trigger. She had never been a religious woman, but now – with the lives of everyone she loved on the line – she contemplated saying a quiet prayer, if she had known how such things were done.

Would God even listen, at a time like this? With all the horrible things they’d done in the name of survival? And if God turned an ear her way, what would it say about Him that such horrors were allowed to exist? That the innocent perished and the evil reigned?

How could she pray to a God like that?

 _Just let them live,_ she thought to no one in particular – the larger universe, perhaps, if there was a fate willing to hear her despair. _Let them survive. If you need someone, take me._

Marcus nodded, ever the image of composure. Only someone as attuned to him as Abby would have understood the terror in his posture, the fear betrayed in the lines on his forehead and the grief in his gaze. This was all of his worst nightmares realized: a battle at their gates, two people for whom he cared about deeply kneeling on the road with weapons at their heads, a man whose life he spared returning to do the opposite to his community.

He looked at her again, briefly, agony imbedded in every inch of his being.

“Okay,” he said, lowering his weapon slowly, bending down gradually to place it on the ground, raising both hands once the pavement claimed his only means of self-defense. Abby could barely hear over the sound of her own breathing and the pounding of her heart.

“Okay,” Marcus repeated for emphasis, his hands still raised. “I understand. I understand.”

“Good, Marcus,” Alie said.

“Now slide your weapon under the fence,” Thelonious ordered. Marcus hesitated, if only for a moment, and suddenly, Abby no longer felt a phantom tingle where the gun was trained on the back of her head; instead, it was replaced by the unmistakable sensation of that round metal at the back of her skull.

“ _Now_ ,” Thelonious reiterated. “Or he pulls the trigger.”

The gun made a scratchy, grinding sound as it spun under the fence, and Marcus Kane was defenseless against whatever came next. She hoped the look on her face was more apology than agony. After all, if she hadn’t left…if she hadn’t insisted Lincoln go with her…would this still have happened? Had Roan or someone else gone with her, would they have reacted differently? Would Thelonious Jaha still be at their gates with guns to their heads, making a madman’s demands?

“Good,” Thelonious said. “Now, your knife.”

Marcus reached into his knife sheath, withdrawing the weapon, and slid it under the fence as quickly as he’d disposed of his gun. Abby watched Octavia give him a glare, clearly in disagreement with his actions, slipping out of view – Abby guessed to go for reinforcements. If it had been up to the young teen, Abby was confident there would already be a firefight; but in fairness, she would have expected the same of Roan. Marcus was one of the only leaders who preferred negotiation over battle, and she had to wonder if Thelonious chose the timing for that reason.

“You exiled me for making a choice that saved lives,” Thelonious snarled, “and now, you’ll have to make a similar decision.”

Only her trained eyes could tell he was seconds away from breaking down. His back rigid, his gaze hardened, deliberately avoiding looking at her out of necessity. She wished there was somewhere else for her to look, too, but to the side of her there was only similar pain. Everywhere she looked, she saw Marcus.

“Leave willingly, and your people will be allowed to go unharmed,” Thelonious said. “Stay, and face your destruction.”

Abby glanced over at Lincoln, noticed the bewilderment in his stare. With Octavia gone, she understood what he was thinking: what he feared. If things went wrong, he wanted her to be the last thing he saw. Now, that would be impossible.

“You don’t have to do this,” Marcus said, stepping forward, prompting Thelonious’ people to raise their weapons. Abby’s breath caught in her throat, a single bead of sweat tracing a path from her forehead down her temples, slipping between her dry, cracked lips. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Thelonoius. We can live together, here. Your people and mine. We’re not too far gone.”

The only sound was the ruffling of wind through the trees and her thumping heart, the whistling of air through her lungs and the sound of Lincoln breathing next to her. Abby could imagine him exchanging a look with the woman, weapons still raised, conclusions made since long before Marcus decided to offer peace. As they’d probably known he would.

Marcus stood. Abby kneeled.

Marcus stared. Abby closed her eyes.

Marcus waited. Abby listened.

Then, the distinct _crack_ of a gunshot, echoing through the woods, bouncing off Arkadia’s walls and through the faded ruin of the rest of the world.

Abby felt the air above her head shift, although the shot traveled nowhere in her vicinity– with its placement, she suspected it had been meant for Thelonious. But it was wrong, off, aimed incorrectly, because the man in the leather jacket did not stumble back, did not collapse to the ground. No red bloomed from his head, his chest. Whomever had fired, they had been unsuccessful in averting a crisis.

They had been successful in starting a war.

Her eyes still closed, Abby prepared for a second firing, the one that would take her from this world, from Clarke, from Marcus. With her gone, she desperately wished they kept their hope. They continued fighting the right battles, pushed the weight of the world off their shoulders, because survival was not a burden they needed to bear alone.

Clarke knew.

Marcus didn’t.

It was transparent as it had ever been, now, moments from her death. Kneeling in the dirt, stuck beneath a trigger and a bullet, it was utterly obvious, heartbreakingly real in its impossibility. It tasted like acid, like poison, like a gunshot. Knowing it now was too late, but at least she’d die knowing it. He never would.

She would never get the chance to tell him.

She opened her eyes, one last time. Stared at him, locked gazes with him as she’d done so many times before, found memories in the tears in his eyes.

The time she told him to stop sacrificing himself for her.

The time he brought back art supplies for Clarke from a run, saying it was safer for them both if he found the colored pencils.

The time they’d sat on her porch and watched the sun rise, the vibrant sky dusting his skin with shades of pink and purple.

The time he walked her home from Medical, nighttime closing in around them at her doorstep as she was overtaken by an immature, senseless urge to press her lips to his.

The time, not long ago, when he caught her off-guard with the flash of a camera and a laugh.

At least when she was gone, she’d still be with him.

Reality seemed suspended, powerless, as she let the realization wash over her.

_I love you._

Thelonious snapped her back to reality by stumbling forward, fingers on his weapon, aiming in the direction of the missed shot.

“Liar,” he said.

Abby thought about Clarke and closed her eyes.

A gun fired.

Lincoln Grounder fell to the earth.

A girl – Octavia? – screamed.

Marcus yelled.

Her ears rang.

Her heart lurched.

Her hands shook.

The battle began.


	9. Chapter 9

Everywhere Abby looked, there was chaos.

It was impossible to tell who had fired first, not that it mattered. Shots erupted on both sides, the gate to Arkadia was thrown open, and all around her, yells of pain and terror rang heavy in the bitter air. She couldn’t look to her left, because looking to her left would mean seeing Lincoln – a man who had only ever stood for peace, kindness, and non-violence – crumpled on the ground, lifeless. There was a heaviness in her heart that kept her kneeling on the pavement for longer than she would have needed to, considering the henchman with the gun was absorbed in far more pressing matters than keeping her in place.

But with such pain everywhere she turned, gunshots whizzing past and the snarling of approaching walkers in the distance, where could she go? Every inch of their safe zone had become dangerous, tainted by war and bad blood, and going inside the walls might be more volatile than staying outside them.

Sweat dripped down her forehead, and swallowing felt like she’d consumed shards of glass. If she’d eaten anything in the last day, now would have been the moment it came back up: her stomach clenched and flipped, and she fell somewhere halfway between sobbing and passing out. Was this how Clarke had felt, only a few nights ago?

_Clarke._

The medicine.

She’d stumbled upon a purpose for herself without meaning to do it, managed to lift her heavy heart just enough to allow her shaking legs to support her. Without the medicine, they were all doomed – fighting or not. And it had to be in Jaha’s trailer, didn’t it? The car that brought them here had housed both he and Alie, the two most important members of the group. It stood to reason that the most important cargo would be kept within their sight.

Having managed to get to her feet, Abby tried to separate herself from the melee of madness around her. Only a few feet away, she glimpsed one of Roan’s men – a member of the supply run team – fall after being hit in the chest, collapsing to the ground with a cry and a spurt of red erupting from his core. Flushed, head aching, she swallowed hard and forced herself to keep moving.

If anyone noticed her moving away from the chaos, they didn’t try to stop it from happening. She figured Thelonious had gotten what he wanted – a war – and with her purpose served, Abby was no longer of use to him. Either that, or something horrible awaited her when she made it to the trailer. At this point, her only option was to find out.

Each step reminded her not only of Clarke, of the decreased likelihood of her survival with every second that passed, but of her own deteriorating condition. Marcus had been right to be concerned about that first, short cough. It had been a symptom. It had been something she should have monitored, and exerting herself would only make it worse. But now, sprinting full-force toward the vehicle that housed her daughter’s best chance of survival, Abby wouldn’t consider her fate. Their people needed her to be successful, and in the end, she needed them – needed Clarke, needed Bellamy – to keep going when this hell ended.

And of course, because she was distracted, that was when it happened.

She tripped.

Her legs flew out from beneath her as her boot caught on an uneven stretch of pavement, one foot sticking in the pothole as the other tried to keep going. The imbalance sent her careening toward the ditch on the side of the road, her jacket catching and tearing on a jagged piece of wood, her forehead colliding with the hard, unrelenting ground. The world rotated around her, spinning as though she were sinking, stuck in a whirlpool, drowning in the sharp scent of smoke.

It seemed an eternity before she slowed, before the ground caught hold of her and stopped her rotation. Landing face-down in a stretch of grass on the border of the woods, she took stock of what had been damaged. Her arms, legs, and chest felt fine. Her head hurt, but her head had hurt long before she succumbed to her frayed nerves and senseless carelessness.

Damage showed itself when she tried to stand, forcing her to grit her teeth at the once easy motion of getting to her feet. Her ankle – the one that had been trapped in the hole in the pavement – was swollen inside her boot, radiating throbbing pain when she tried to put weight on it. Undoubtedly, she’d twisted it. The ideal treatment for that was rest, ice, and staying off the injured area. Instead, she continued sprinting to the outskirts of a war zone in midsummer.

Slowly, with gritted teeth and shallow breaths, she continued her procession. Sweat mixed with blood and dripped down her forehead, staining the forest floor bright red. The world was a microscope lens that refused to focus, fading in and out of clarity, birdsongs and snarls combining to form a disquieting symphony. Were there walkers out here, too? Were there any _left_ , now that hundreds of them had flooded toward Arkadia?

Her hand drifted to her belt, only for her to realize Thelonious had taken her weapon. Of course he did. Couldn’t have the captives defending themselves, now could he?

_Captives._

_Lincoln._

Remorse hit her like a bullet to the chest, tearing through her, leaving her breathless as she half-ran, half-limped toward the clearing where she thought she’d seen the trailer. Her assistant, the kindest, gentlest soul she’d ever known. A man dedicated to helping others, to bringing them in from the hell of the outside world to the heaven of Arkadia. A man who loved others – who loved _Octavia_ – more and more with every beat of his heart, and who kept that love until the moment Thelonious -

Up until then, Abby’d made a decent effort to be quiet. She had no way of knowing if Thelonious’ people patrolled the woods, and it would do her no good to be re-captured and taken back to his camp if Arkadia didn’t win the battle. Her stealing back what was rightfully theirs depended on her ability to keep her lips closed and her breathing silent, and until her memory betrayed her, submerging her in a memory so agonizing it felt as though her heart had been ripped from her chest, she’d been doing a good job at it.

But, unable to mask her despair, the shame and heartbreak and responsibility she felt for his fate, Abby let out a quiet, grating whimper that felt like metal cutting the inside of her throat. Her eyes burned and the world grew blurry again, and walking became a hell of a lot harder, the forest floor tipping and spinning and tilting under her.

The pain in her head became unbearable, and it – combined with her troublesome ankle and the darkness at the edges of her vision – was enough to shove her to the ground. Sticks and leaves broke her fall, cushioning what otherwise would have been a jarring collapse, and when she landed, it felt almost like climbing into bed.

Tears clouding her vision, she whispered the only two words that came to mind.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked to no one present and everyone she loved. “I’m sorry.”

A shape hovered at the edge of her line of sight, elusive, moving slowly. If she’d had anything left to give – if her muscles were inclined toward cooperation, if she had gotten more than a few hours of sleep in the past few days – she would have gotten up. But the puzzle pieces of her situation weren’t aligning, nothing clicked together. There was no snarling. The movements were precise, not cumbersome as a walker’s would be.

Then she saw it – a flash of golden hair. Something in her heart sparked then, a final burst of energy prompted by that familiar sight – and she found her voice, however feeble.

“Clarke?” she whispered.

Clarke knelt down, offering her a warm, weightless smile. There was no blood on her lips, no pallor to her youthful, glowing skin. Her figure illuminated by the glowing sun and framed by the sprawling branches of the forest, her eyes bluer than the sky overhead, she was the most beautiful thing Abby Griffin had ever seen.

“It’s okay, mom,” she said. “You’re going to be okay.”

Suddenly frantic, Abby shook her head. “No,” she said, the motion making her dizzy. “No. Not without you. I have to-“

“You have to rest,” Clarke said. “Mom, I know you’re worried, but we’re going to be okay.”

“I can’t-“

Clarke sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her mother's forehead. “Fine. If you won’t listen to me, will you listen to dad?”

And suddenly she disappeared, gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by a man with sandy blonde hair and their daughter’s blue eyes. They had been his, first, before they were hers. He gazed down at her with a fondness that split open her swelling heart, the necklace resting on her collarbone seeming to glow in his presence. The whole world was dark, fading, but he alone was bathed in light.

“Jake,” she breathed. And some part of her knew, surely, that this was the end. That somehow, she had done enough to see him again – that eternity _did_ hold the promise of life by his side.

So it stunned her when he shook his head, fixing her with the same soft, knowing gaze he gave her whenever he tried to convince her to see his side of an argument, to change her mind, to mold her way of thinking to his will. But it was different now, brimming over with longing, and the last thing holding her together inside broke.

“Baby, they need you here,” he said, and Abby felt her lungs shuddering as she strained to breathe. “You have to stay, for them. For her. For Kane.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand…”

“It’s not your time, Abby,” he said, strands of hair falling into his face that she yearned to be able to brush away, to comb her fingers through as she’d once done. But he felt as far away as he was close, each word he said widening an invisible gap between them.

“I…” she started, feeling wetness trickle down the sides of her face, realizing her body had given her one last capability: crying. “Jake, you don’t…”

_You don’t understand. Everything’s wrong. I’m sick. I’m dying. Clarke’s sick. Save her. Please._

“You’re the strongest woman I ever knew,” Jake said, “and there are so many people here who need you. Who want you to be happy, because they love you as much as I do.”

The ring around her neck burned, and his image flashed through her mind’s eye before she could stop it. _Marcus._

“When this is over, he’ll come find you, Abby,” Jake said, “and I want you to let him.”

Her brain sluggish, slow, she felt as though she only understood every few words. 

“What?” she breathed, half-sobbing, reaching out to touch him, fingers curling around open air.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. “Please, Abby. When you wake up, stop fighting.”

“Clarke…” she whispered.

“She’s all right,” Jake reassured her. “She’s safe.”

_Safe…_

“I love you,” she said urgently, suddenly overtaken by the realization that this might be the last chance she had to tell him. To say the things she couldn’t have said the morning before the car accident. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead that absorbed her pain, leaving behind a profound sense of drowsiness when he pulled away. She could no longer keep her eyes open, and with one last look, he drifted away.

* * *

 

“I have to find her,” Marcus said, his voice tight. “She wasn’t out there. She got away.”

Roan gave him a sidelong look, having recovered just enough of his skepticism to raise an eyebrow. “Did you _see_ her get away? Or are you saying it because you want it to be true, Kane?”

Marcus gave a huff of exasperation. “There’s nothing else to say!” he exclaimed, unwilling to accept alternatives other than Abby Griffin’s survival. “We cleared the area, and she wasn’t there.”

That much was true – he hadn’t found her. While everyone else in the safe zone was accounted for, either among the living or the dead, the woman who mattered most to him was an unmistakable mystery.

With the heartbreaking work of clearing the area outside the walls done and the fighting stopped with Thelonious' retreat, he’d regrouped with Roan and a slowly-healing Clarke and Roan in Medical. He'd found a shred of Abby's blue jacket lying in the brown grass outside the walls - a discovery he thought merited discussion, or rather, _action_. Its owner was nowhere to be found in the ruins, and he had to think – perhaps, even if it was nothing but a foolish hope – that she might have lived. She could have lived.

He placed that shred in his pocket, and swallowed his fears.

Abby was smart enough to have not bothered with the fighting. She was many things – brilliant, kind, headstrong, determined – but she wasn’t useful in battle, and she knew it. It stood to reason that she might have made her way into the woods, finding relative safety away from the bullets and walkers. He ignored the part of him that insisted if she were all right – if she were safe, unharmed – that she would have found her way back by now. Nagging doubts continued to plague him about her condition, about the way she looked on the other side of the gate, the pallor of her skin and the sweat dripping from her brow. Something had been wrong with her then, and he _needed_ to find her before…

He couldn’t even think it.

“But you didn’t see her escape,” Roan reiterated, clearly less than willing to let him go without proof. A tattered piece of her jacket would not be enough to convince him of her survival, though it was enough to drive Marcus deep into the woods with night closing in around them. Was it foolish of him to believe he would have felt something, sensed something, if she were truly gone? They’d spent so much time together, known each other as intimately as they could without crossing a line they’d both drawn months ago. But now he knew his heart had been hers since the moment they met, and he thought he would have felt his own heart going silent.

“I did,” another voice proclaimed, and Marcus turned to see Octavia throwing open the door, striding into the room, her voice flat. “I saw her get away.”

Approaching Octavia was a delicate matter, and Marcus’ breath caught when he realized how hollow her voice sounded, how broken she seemed. It had been only a few hours since she lost the person she loved most, and words seemed too weak and fragile to express the depth of sorrow he felt. Though her decision had been reckless, Marcus could hardly fault her. She thought she could end the war with one pinpoint-accurate shot: unfortunately, it hadn’t been accurate enough.

“Where?” Roan asked, oblivious to the pain radiating off the girl in waves. Marcus ached to talk to her, to tell her what happened with Lincoln wasn’t her fault – if she hadn’t tried to take the shot, someone else would have – and that she couldn’t have known the consequences for trying to make the right decision.

If he had made that choice himself, allowed Roan to follow through with his initial punishment instead of arguing for a more lenient sentence, then she would’ve still had the man she loved, and Abby Griffin wouldn’t be missing, sick, and heartbroken.

“She ran into the woods when the fighting started,” Octavia said, a chill in her voice as she maintained her distance from both men in the room. “I didn’t see her come out.”

“So she’s still out there,” Marcus said, his chest tight.

Night would soon be upon them, and with their limited supply of ammunition dwindled down to nothing, he’d be venturing out beyond the walls with little more than his dulled senses and determination. It was more than likely she’d found somewhere safe, he reminded himself. She probably closed herself in a car, an abandoned cabin, somewhere she’d be able to spend a night in safety.

She’d be protected from walkers. She wouldn’t be safe from the disease that overtook a good portion of their population, and – at least from the looks of her – had started on her, too.

He’d been unable to save Ilian, Lincoln.

He would not let the same fate befall her.

“I’m going,” Marcus said to no one in particular, turning to leave, in no mood to hear Roan protest.

“It’s going to be dark soon,” Roan noted; apparently, Marcus turning his back to the man wasn’t enough to quell his warning. “You need to get back here in an hour, Kane. I’m telling Nathan and Monty to lock the gates after sunset, no matter who’s outside. We can't risk another attack.”

Marcus nodded, not offended in the slightest. It wasn’t personal. With all the losses they’d suffered today, he could hardly blame Roan for wanting to minimize the damage. Part of him wanted to yell, to lash out, but not on his own behalf – he wanted to ensure Abby made it back, that Abby got the medicine she needed, that Abby made it back to the safe zone as soon as possible. Locking the gates, depending who was on duty, would make that more difficult.

“I’ll be back before then,” Marcus assured him, though the thumping of his heart seemed to imply otherwise. The woods were a large, shadowy place, and although he liked to think she would stay in one area…

Then it was Roan’s turn to nod, his expression turning grim. As much as he knew sealing off the walls was a necessary decision, Marcus knew Roan was not a heartless leader. It would bring him no joy to close his people outside – not when he owed so much to the doctor trapped in the woods.

“Bring her back, Kane,” he said. Marcus opened his mouth, ready to affirm his intent to do just that, but Roan hadn’t finished his orders. “Go. You don’t have much time.”

“I know,” Marcus acknowledged, giving their slowly-healing leader one last look. “And I will.”

And with that, he turned to leave, ready to face the next challenge.

_I’m coming, Abby._ _Hold on._


	10. Chapter 10

When he stepped outside, the first person he saw was Raven Reyes, leaning against the front porch. It almost seemed as though she’d been waiting for him, and he knew better than to believe their meeting had been the result of random chance.

“Raven,” he said, uncertain how else to address the situation. He had a nasty feeling he knew where this was going – what she was going to try to do – but he was too weary to lead with such an assumption.

“Kane,” she said, stepping closer. There was a fire in her eyes he’d seen only once before, a determined blaze he’d been convinced only burned because she wanted revenge for what happened to Finn. Could it be, he wondered, that that protectiveness applied to all those about whom she deeply cared?

There was another woman whose eyes held that same spark, and his heart skipped a beat as he continued moving. Time was not on his side, and Raven would have to walk and talk.

“Okay, don’t talk to me,” Raven said, moving into step next to him. “That’s fine. Not like I should be informed about what’s going on.”

Marcus sighed. “I’m not ignoring you,” he said. “But you can talk to Roan. I need to get moving. It’ll be dark soon.”

Recognition, stoking the flames. “You’re going after her, right? Abby?”

If he had more time, he would have stopped in his tracks. The kids always had an uncanny knack for knowing he and Abby better than they knew themselves, and he thought he probably should have guessed Raven understood why he was in a hurry. After all, Octavia had known enough to give Abby’s whereabouts without prompting.

“I am,” Marcus said firmly. “I’m not leaving her out there.”

“Thank God,” Raven said. “I’m coming with you.”

Marcus stared at her, exuding confidence and recklessness in equal turn, and knew she’d stop at nothing to get Abby back. More than that, she was a mechanic: if they did end up trapped on the other side of the gates, she might be able to override the system and get them inside without the strenuous task of climbing rusted metal. When he weighed his responsibility for her against the benefits of having her at his side…there was a clear winner.

“Don't take any unnecessary risks,” Marcus said, a warning. “We won’t have much time once we’re out there.”

“Of course we won't. That would be too easy,” Raven remarked. 

They walked in quiet for a bit, surveying the damage in silence. This far into the zone, not much had been wrecked: a hole in a home there, a wisp of smoke across the way, the sound of a child crying drifting through an open window. There was a sense of brokenness that hadn’t existed before, absence where before, there had been nothing but completeness. Thelonious had taken their illusion of safety and innocence and destroyed it, and for those who had been under Nia – and then Roan’s – protection since the outbreak first began, it was a lot to take in. This world, and the undeniable horrors of it, were a truth from which they'd been camouflaged.  

“Once we get out there, I need you to _listen_ ,” Marcus said, remembering Raven’s tendencies to follow her own rules. “We might not get a second chance. When I saw her today-“

“She looked sick,” Raven finished for him. Something in her tone bordered on fear, a sort of reinforced, determined dread, and in that instant, he knew he wasn’t the only person outside of Medical who cared what happened to Doctor Abby Griffin.

“That’s why I have to find her,” Marcus said as they rounded a corner, Raven taking two strides to keep up with one of his. “She’s out there, she’s sick, and she doesn’t have medicine. Abby does so much for all of us, I’m not going to cower here and-“

Raven snorted, and Marcus stopped short.

“What?” he asked, glancing over at her. He was surprised to find her smirking, even if the gesture was tainted with a twinge of sadness.

“After all the shit that just went down today, you’re not even gonna admit it?”

At that, he did freeze. It was instinctual, habitual, a knee-jerk reaction to hearing something he’d thought to himself over and over and over again in the aftermath of the battle. It was as though picking up that scrap of shredded fabric had taken a drill to the safe that held his emotions in check, and he couldn’t quite keep himself from dwelling on it. On the one thing he’d never told her, though he hoped she understood it all the same.

Given her pointed question, Raven Reyes certainly did.

“Admit _what_?” Marcus asked, feigning bewilderment.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Raven said, her gaze hardening. “You’re not just going out there because she’s a damn good doctor.”

The street felt longer than it had ever felt before, appearing to stretch for miles and miles into the distance, and Marcus felt sweat forming on his brow despite a chill in the rapidly cooling air.

“What do you want me to say?” Marcus said tersely, perhaps more forcefully than he meant. “I can’t stand that she’s out there and I’m in here. Being on the other side of that fence today was the worst I’ve ever felt.”

Raven rolled her eyes. “A lot of people lost people they cared about today,” she said. “The least you could do is admit, out loud, that she’s more than a fucking doctor to you.”

The gates loomed before them, imposing, dark, and all Marcus could see was Lincoln collapsing, the shock on Abby’s face, the explosions all around him, losing sight of her, yelling for Octavia while everything tasted like smoke and felt like having his heart torn out and eaten before him. Everything they’d worked to build – everything they stood for – was being ransacked and burned before their eyes, and with limited ammunition, they’d been all but powerless to stop it.

“If I promise to tell her when we find her,” Marcus said, “will you stop lecturing me about it?”

Raven shrugged. “Whatever the hell you want, Kane.”

She’d been spending too much time around Bellamy.

They arrived at the gate soon enough, hesitating for a moment, checking to be sure they had the weapons they needed.

“Leaving, Kane?” a voice asked, and Marcus felt himself stiffen. “Not without me.”

They could use more people, certainly, but he wasn’t keen on this particular resident joining them.

Which, all things considered, was probably why Octavia decided to show up.

It wasn’t that Marcus didn’t want the company, but he’d thought Octavia might decide to keep watch over her brother, to ensure the first round of medicine they’d been able to recover from the wreckage was doing its job. Apparently, that was a task that had fallen to Clarke and Roan.

On the other side of the logical spectrum, he’d wanted her to take tonight to grieve. Octavia didn’t mourn like most people, at least from what he’d observed. She wouldn’t spend days crying. She wouldn’t break down in public, and she certainly wouldn’t let her pain show around anyone whom she didn’t wholeheartedly trust. But losing a casual acquaintance and losing the man she loved were two very different things, and Marcus understood leaving the walls wasn’t just about Abby tonight. It was about saving Octavia Blake from herself – letting her mind wander so the agony of loss might stray with it.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked. Her gaze was empty – a hollow void lodged itself behind her green eyed stare, empty where a spark once shone. Her fingers clenched around her sword, and he knew he hadn’t so much as needed to ask the question.

“We need to find Abby, right?” Octavia said, her voice flat. “So let’s go.”

Raven, standing beside him, gave him a look: apparently, she had her doubts about Octavia’s claim that she was mission-ready. But with no time to argue their options were limited, and Marcus understood they’d have to take her at her word. He’d rather her be venturing outside the walls with him and Raven than a team of people to whom she’d scarcely spoken during their three months at the safe zone.

He stepped forward, standing directly in front of the heartbroken young woman he’d come to think of as his daughter. Most didn’t know her well enough to see the tiny places her strong façade cracked, to understand how the tension in her shoulders and the vacancy of her gaze betrayed her grief. With Bellamy still in the clutches of their mystery disease, Marcus Kane was the only one to understand the true depth of Octavia Blake’s suffering.

“You haven’t gone on a run before,” Marcus reminded her. It wasn’t a refusal and they both knew it – after all, the time for “no” had long ago ended. Abby was gone, Lincoln was dead, and the world was shattered as it could possibly be.

“Not a problem,” Octavia said. “I was trained. We’re losing daylight.”

Raven looked at him expectantly – apparently, she thought he’d put up a fight – but losing Lincoln and the mystery of Abby’s whereabouts had sapped the energy from deep within him. He wasn’t sure if he could muster a yell if his life depended on it, so weary was he down to his core.

With Raven staring at him, Marcus decided to give them an abbreviated version of the pre-run speech he'd delivered so many times before. 

“Stay close,” he said to Octavia, handing Raven a radio as they agreed they'd cover more ground splitting up than staying together. “And if you hear anything, you need to tell me right away. It could be a walker, or it could be-“

He paused, choking on the words as he swallowed them back down. The initial implication had simply been that Abby was likely still walking around out there, that while there was still sunlight she’d be trying to navigate her way back to Arkadia.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Kane,” Raven reassured him as they began walking, approaching the break in the metal doors that would allow them not only to find their doctor, but to sentence them to life in the woods overnight if they were not successful in the next hour. “Abby’s too smart to be in trouble.”

* * *

“After this, I’m not going back to Arkadia.”

Marcus’ fingers twitched on his weapon, and he felt a thrill of dread coursing through him. This, he thought, was the thing he’d been most fearful of. Not that Octavia was currently risking her life to bring Abby Griffin back to Arkadia, but that she’d had some ulterior motive in doing it.

They’d been wandering through the woods for a half-hour or so, the sun dipping lower as the moon brightened, shadows stretching across their well-worn paths. At the slightest sound, his heart leapt. Marcus Kane did not fear walkers, but he did fear the unknown; the seemingly unsolvable riddle of Abby Griffin’s whereabouts.

To Octavia, he tried the first line of defense: parenting.

“Yes, you are,” he insisted. 

“No, I’m sure as hell not,” Octavia growled, casting a glance over her should as if in hopes that Marcus might have disappeared. No such luck, he thought.

“Octavia,” Marcus started, trying a different approach. “I know it’s been an awful day. But leaving the safe zone…the walls, the food…I don’t think it’s your best course of action, and neither does –“

He stopped in his tracks, embers flying from where his sentence ended abruptly. It had been only a few hours since Jaha had taken his revenge, and the casualty that stuck most prominently was the one he couldn’t quite phrase in past tense.

“Don’t tell me what Lincoln would have wanted,” Octavia snapped, and Marcus flinched as though she’d slapped him. He overstepped his boundaries, and he knew it.

“I’m sorry,” he said almost immediately, fearful that his blunder had cost him the opportunity to talk Octavia out of making whatever impulsive decision came after they found Abby. “But Octavia, the safe zone has so much to offer you. To offer our people. Leaving it behind isn’t noble. It’s dangerous.”

Octavia aimed a steely glare in his direction and continued walking, ducking under a low branch with catlike grace. “I know that,” she said. “But I can’t live here. Not after today.”

 _I can’t live here._ It made sense, he reasoned, for her want to go. After all, this was the place she’d shared with Lincoln, a place where they’d gotten to know each other and fallen in love. It was also the place that broke her more deeply than she’d been shattered ever before, now haunted as much as it was helpful.

“I don’t think that’s a decision you need to make right now,” Marcus offered, waiting for at least a hint that logic might rear its head. “You should give yourself time, Octavia. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

She froze, rounding on him with fire in her eyes.

“I don’t blame myself,” she snapped. “I blame you.”

 _Oh,_ he thought, a simple word that radiated down to his heart and submerged it in quicksand.

Was she doing this because of him? Because she couldn’t stand to be near him, the man who could have stopped Lincoln from leaving with Abby? The man who should have been by Abby Griffin’s side, kneeling next to her instead of watching the scene from behind gates and walls? His stomach clenched and he felt nauseous, tumbling through time and space and mid-air as regret punched him in the gut.

“I know it should have been me,” Marcus said, swallowing hard, the air around him tasting bitter and thick. “I should have been out there, beside her today. I’m sorry it wasn’t, Octavia. If I could go back-“

A tree branch snapped back and hit him squarely in the chest, knocking the words back down his throat. Whatever he was saying, it wasn’t enough – it wouldn’t keep her in Arkadia any more than he could bring the man she loved back to life.

“Save it, Kane,” he heard her spit, a blaze burning in her words. “Focus on finding Abby. Since she was lucky enough to make it out _alive_.”

 _She was lucky enough to…_ did Octavia blame Abby for surviving? Certainly not, he decided. This was between him and her, and he would not – could not – absolve himself of his own role in Lincoln’s death. Lungs shrinking, rejecting the hot, stagnant air around him, Marcus considered all the times he could have stopped it from happening. Could he have forced Abby to stay inside the walls? Could he have forced Lincoln to stay and Abby to accept his companionship? Could he have talked Roan out of allowing her to leave?

“Kane!” Octavia exclaimed, shattering his cocoon of remorse. “I found something!”

The patch of her jacket, zipped safely in his pocket, felt like it burned him. Without the sounds of shuffling, the rustling of leaves or the faint whispering of breathing, it seemed unlikely her discovery had been what Marcus was looking for. Nevertheless he sprinted to Octavia’s side, determined to find at least another piece in the puzzle to Abby Griffin’s whereabouts.

When he arrived, the discovery was clear: Octavia held a small satchel in one of her leather-gloved hands while rooting around inside with the other. She procured a white jar no larger than her palm, and squinted to read the label in the dimming light.

“Penicillin,” she breathed, and watching her smile though she’d decided not to stay in Arkadia felt like cracking his chest open. She _did_ care.

“Is there anything that could point us to Abby?” Marcus asked, hesitant to focus her attention on the thing he could still have, the thing Jaha stole from her. But Octavia, concerned only with the mission, didn’t stop to indulge her emotions.

“I don’t see anything. It could have been-“

She stopped, took a sharp, short breath, fingers tightening around worn linen. Marcus knew what she was thinking, knew she imagined the man whose grip might have held the bag last.

“You can hold onto it,” Marcus offered, and Octavia nodded. She looked up at him, and suddenly – almost jarringly – it was clear: she was no longer a child. Growing up in this world aged her, molded the ghosts of those she’d lost into the depths of her blue gaze.

By unspoken agreement they continued walking, and Marcus wondered if Raven had any better luck than them. They’d agreed to split up, with the understanding that if either party ran into trouble – or _Abby_ – that they would radio. He’d heard nothing from Raven thus far, and assumed she hadn’t been any more successful than him and Octavia.

“What do you want me to tell Bellamy?” Marcus asked softly, though he knew Raven was far away.

It was a valid question: how would he tell her brother, the person who loved her most in the world, that she had chosen solitude, her anger, her _pain_ , over him? It chilled him to think how her decision would affect him. Now, when Bellamy thought he’d gotten his health back, considered he might again have a chance at happiness…that happiness would remain elusive.

For as deeply as Octavia felt she needed to leave, Bellamy would feel he needed to find her. There would be no keeping him inside the walls after this, at least not without great difficulty. He would stop at nothing to find his sister, even if she made it clear she didn’t want to be found.

“I don’t suppose there’s a point in trying to convince you to stay for him?” Marcus asked, his statement equal parts a question and a prayer. If she wouldn’t stay for him – and he didn’t deserve that – maybe she would stay for her brother.

“Tell him I had to go,” Octavia said. “And I don’t want him to follow me.”

“You know he will,” Marcus countered. “Octavia, Bellamy will go anywhere you go. I won’t be able to stop him.”

“Then that’s his problem.”

“He loves you.”

“He needs to leave me alone.”

Marcus took a deep breath, inhaled a beat of sweat as it trickled through his lips.

“Octavia, he _loves you_ ,” Marcus reiterated, knowing that was the closest he would ever be able to come to expressing a similar sentiment. Having this conversation with her was like being torn limb from limb, an excruciating pain he was powerless to stop. A torture he deserved, an agony wedged too deep in his heart to radiate from anything but love. She had been a daughter to him, a light in his life, and once she left tonight, that candle would flicker.

“If that’s true, he’ll understand,” Octavia said, and something in the way she looked at him shone with comprehension; she knew there was a dual meaning to his words, to the set of his jaw and the pain in his eyes. And she was going to proceed to tear his heart out anyway.

“Lincoln was my home,” Octavia said. “Without him, there’s nothing for me in Arkadia.”

Marcus felt his stomach sink, dread pooling in his core. Bellamy had been his last hope: there really was no keeping Octavia inside the walls.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he said softly, swallowing back the anguished yell that clawed at the inside of his throat. “But if this is what you need-“

“It is,” Octavia finished for him, and the discussion was closed.

A hole formed in the conversation that words couldn’t fill – a kind of resigned emptiness that pushed and shoved them apart although they stood no more than a few feet from each other. Marcus had never before been so keenly aware of the sound of his own heartbeat, the ache of every breath as it pushed through his lungs. He couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t save Abby. He couldn’t keep Arkadia safe. What could he-

“ _Kane_!”

The radio hissed and crackled, Raven’s sharp exclamation punching through the chirping of crickets and rustling of leaves. His movements more reflexive than voluntary, he raised the device to his lips before he was consciously aware he’d moved his arm.

“Raven?” he said, heart thumping and leaping and sinking all at once. What did her tone mean? How much had static distorted it, blurred the line between relief and fear?

“Kane, I found something.”

He glanced away toward Octavia, whose eyes had widened a fraction. With shaking fingers, he pressed the button to respond.

“What is it?”

“A bag of medicine,” Raven said. “She might be close.”

  
Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Octavia’s fingers curl around the cloth bag in her own hands. If there were two bags, two possible locales…they might be narrowing down Abby’s whereabouts.

“That’s good,” Marcus said, trying not to sound too disappointed. It was progress, undoubtedly, and the medicine was a blessing. But that knowledge wasn’t enough to unfurl the fist of tension that curled itself around his heart, squeezing it tighter with each moment that slipped away. She had to be out here, somewhere. The alternative was impossible.

“We’ll find her, Kane,” Raven reassured him.

He swallowed hard, realizing how awful it must be for Octavia to hear those words. Hardly able to formulate a good response that would be both respectful of her feelings and optimistic about their chances, he lowered the radio to give his thoughts some space.

Then, he heard it.

It started as a faint shuffle behind them, submerged in darkness, hardly more than a gust of wind stirring debris on the forest floor. Having been trained by Lincoln, nothing escaped Octavia; she sprung to action immediately, moving the bag to her left hand and grabbing her weapon with her right, aiming directly into the shifting mass of shadows.

“There’s something out there,” Octavia said, the barrel of her gun aimed at the darkness.

Marcus knew it was a walker, but couldn’t bring himself to do the same. Perhaps it was the length of the day he’d had, perhaps it was the anguish that settled down in the depths of his soul like a sunken ship, perhaps it was the weariness that made every bone in his body crack and groan as he moved. Raising his own gun was beyond him.

“Kane, you good?” Raven asked, but his focus was elsewhere.

He saw a hand first, milky skin peppered with fresh scratches and scrapes, a silver band wrapped around a ring finger. The tattered sleeve of a shirt he knew all too well – a shirt he’d brought back from a run, once, as a surprise.

“ _Abby_ ,” he breathed, every broken piece of him stitching itself together and shattering all at once.

She stepped into the fading daylight, and the world fell away.

It wouldn’t register until later – until he realized how badly his knees hurt – that he’d sprinted the short distance between them, barely kept himself from slipping on dew-covered moss and leaves. The universe had somehow righted itself, promised him something in her clear brown gaze that he thought he’d lost forever.

She was here. She was real. She was alive.

She was _alive_.

All semblance of conscious thought long evaporated, Marcus wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him in a powerful, breathtaking embrace. He thought he heard her laugh as he lifted her off the ground briefly, a quiet, flimsy little thing meant only for him to hear.

They were both breathing heavily, a byproduct of relief, exertion, and release they both desperately needed. Warmth radiated from her like sunlight, expelling a persistent chill in the air and chasing away – if only for the moment – all the cold truths of this, their darkest day. Here, with Abby Griffin in his arms, his love was as strong as his guilt. Remorse and reality lay no claim on his surging, racing heart. His adoration dulled every negative emotion, quelled his disbelief at having found her, at being able to pull her into an embrace and press her close until their ruined world was no longer able to reach him.

Trembling, every muscle in his body burning and electrified and melted all at once, he set her down in the soaked leaves and, though his entire being protested against it, leaned away a fraction.

“Abby,” he said again, swallowing hard to keep his voice from shaking. It didn’t quite work, the latter half of her name emerging as a clipped, half-spluttered exclamation. He tried again, finding no more success in his second attempt than he had in his first. “Abby.”

Her eyes glistening with tears, her lips a wobbly smile, her body shaking. His hands unsteady as they trailed back up her arms to rest on her shoulders, remaining there, anchoring her to him again. Her jacket coated in soot and soil and grime, her forehead stained with deep crimson from a small cut.

He wasn’t surprised the only response she could muster was a nod. It was a miracle he was still able to form sentences when the well of his words had all but run dry; seeing her was enough to expel any and all logical thought. Everything may have gone to madness and chaos, he thought, but with her here, he could almost pretend.

Almost forget the hell that had been rained down upon them, when she was the heaven he’d found.

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching one hand up to brush lightly on the dried blood crusting her forehead. She winced at the contact, her smile slipping. Withdrawing his hand as though the faint sound had been enough to sear him, he returned it to her shoulder.

“I’m-“ she started, and then – just as quickly as the mirage of perfection had formed, it shattered.

She coughed, and the tragedies came back. Because as much as he loved her, felt his whole heart leave him and lodge itself firmly in her shaking hands, he could not protect her from a virus. He could not cure an illness with a well-placed shot to the head. He could not reason with it, convince it to see his side, bargain with it for peace.

 _The medicine,_ he reminded himself, chest aching as though he’d been the one suffering a coughing fit. _She has medicine. She’ll be okay._

The explosive sound broke the force field of affection that had formed around them, and suddenly, it became apparent they were not alone.

“Abby?” Marcus heard someone exclaim, incredulous. He didn’t have to squint into the darkness to know it was Raven.

“Raven,” Abby breathed, her smile re-forming. “You’re oka-“

Another coughing fit, nearly doubling her over as she wheezed for breath.

“We have to get you home,” Marcus insisted once the noises had stopped and his heart resumed beating once again. “We have the medicine, Abby. You need to take it.”

She gave him a pointed glance that translated to defiance, and Marcus couldn’t help but marvel at her stubbornness. Abby Griffin could be at death’s door and still find ways to make her displeasure with him known.

“Not until our people take them,” she said.

“Can you walk?” Raven asked her, and Abby answered with a short, curt nod. She might have been, but not well: her lurching had been uneven enough for Octavia to mistake her for a walker. If they allowed her to move on her own two feet, it would take them longer than they’d been allotted to return to whatever remained of their safe zone.

“I’ll carry you,” Marcus said softly. She wouldn’t approve – that much he knew for certain – but he had to try. He had to at least provide it as an option, since it would get her what he knew she desperately wanted: a chance to save what remained of their people.

Abby gave him the same withering glance, expressing all the skepticism he’d predicted.

“I don’t…need that,” she breathed, her words rattling as they slipped past her cracked lips. “…can get there on my own.”

Raven quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously disbelieving her claim. Neither of them truly believed she could make it back to Arkadia without aid.

“You can,” Raven said, stepping in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to support her, “but you don’t have to.”

Octavia moved away from them as Raven spoke, placing distance between her and their group that he couldn’t assume would ever be closed again.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to Bellamy?” Marcus asked. There was no changing her mind. Not now. Her loss today had poured gasoline on the fire in her eyes and turned it into a roaring, revengeful inferno. But if he could at least offer solace to the boy who loved her more than his own life – the boy who raised her from childhood, the boy who protected her for months after the world ended – that might at least be enough to allow him an hour or two of sleep at night.

A flicker of something flitted across her expression. Was it guilt? Conflict? Indecision? It passed as soon as it arrived, and Marcus watched as she jutted out her chin a fraction and gave him her best, harshest stare.

“Yes,” she said. Then, softer, almost mournful: “Goodbye, Kane.”

In the blink of an eye, the darkness embraced her and she was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Abby was only sure of one thing right now: if she stopped, if she allowed herself to _feel_ anything at all, she would collapse. And she really couldn't afford to fall apart when there was work to be done, patients that needed to be treated urgently.

So she forced herself away from Marcus' comforting touch, his hands that lingered on her arms, her waist, the small of her back, searching to soothe, and (she suspected) allay his own fears. She avoided his worried eyes or else she would get lost in them. She could not be tired. She could not grieve. She could not succumb to the effects of the illness on her own body; the fogginess that threatened to cloud her mind, her aching limbs, or the tight pain in her chest that made each breath harder to take. She needed to be Doctor Griffin until her job was done, and then she could break in private.

So she strode into medical and became a whirlwind of action, ignoring Jackson's worried, "Abby..." and set about trying to at least make _one thing_ right.

She treated Clarke first, even though her daughter's laboured breathing and trembling hands still caused instinctive panic to shoot through her, she reminded herself that the meds would work. She set up an IV of fluids and antivirals in order to get it into Clarke's system as efficiently as possible, and pressed a cold compress to her sweaty forehead.

"Mom..." Clarke must have heard something of what had happened, for she looked upset and worried, "Are you okay?"

The shock and horror started to rise in her throat, but Abby swallowed it down,

"I'll be fine, honey."

"You don't look fine."

"Just lie back and rest. Don't worry about me. I'll be here for a while."

"Roan and Bellamy..." Clarke murmured, her eyes finding them both easily, like she'd been keeping an eye on them.

"They're next," Abby promised, then kissed Clarke's brow and went to make good on her words.

The cannulas and IV lines were quickly used up, and Abby moved on to shots and pills. She felt Marcus' eyes following her constantly from where he alternated between sitting by Bellamy's bedside and doing whatever Jackson told him. He was trying to be useful because he couldn't fix anything else, just like her, Abby knew. Just like he seemed to understand that she was doing the same. He carefully kept his distance, waiting for the moment she might need him.

Such a moment came when a coughing fit overtook her and Abby curled in on herself, trying to muffle the sound in the sleeve of her lab coat.

"Abby," Marcus was there, hands on her shoulders, and she was unable to stop herself from leaning back against his solid chest for a moment, "Abby, please sit down for a moment."

"I have patients -" She protested between gasps. When she drew back, the blood was dark where it soaked into the blue fabric of her coat and Marcus' eyes widened.

"Abby, for God's sake!" He snapped, but she could hear the fear behind the anger, the way his voice cracked.

"I can't, Marcus..." She was almost pleading with him. The sound of the bullet was ricocheting around her head; the image of Lincoln falling, already dead, blood and bone staining his skin, the ground... She shook her head, trying to will it all away.

Marcus reached out and cradled her face in his hands, stopping her movements, and Abby found herself closing her eyes, focusing on the warmth of his fingers trailing over her jaw, her neck. He quietened her mind.

"I just got you back," He whispered, "Please, you need to take care of yourself. Or if you won't do it, let me..."

Abby put a hand on his chest; there was warmth beneath her palm, and a beloved heart that continued to beat, strong and steady. She looked up into his face and felt a swell of love and gratitude that she'd lived to see it again; that he had not been broken by her death. That was followed then by guilt - powerful, soul-crushing guilt - that she was the one to survive. Lincoln was gone and Octavia had lost the man she loved. Abby had been through that. The whole reason why she had denied what was between her and Marcus was because she couldn't go through that again. But it turned out she didn't have a choice in loving him. Even standing this close to him wasn't enough; she needed to be closer to him, she yearned for him with her entire body even with the tumult of emotions she was barely holding back.

Wherever Octavia was, she was in terrible pain.

As if echoing her thoughts, a weak, hoarse voice broke through their reverie,

"Octavia?"

Bellamy had woken and was attempting to sit up, hissing when he accidentally pulled the IV line taut.

"Careful!" Clarke was at his side in an instant, a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down onto his bedroll.

"Clarke, where's O?"

Clarke turned her sad eyes over to where Marcus and Abby stood, clearly at a loss as to what she could say that wouldn't break Bellamy's heart, and Abby couldn't breathe. How was she supposed to explain what had happened? How could she explain that not only had she made it home whilst Lincoln - the fighter, the survivor - died, but that Octavia had caused the chaos that followed and Abby had failed to stay close to her? Abby had come home, but Lincoln and Octavia had not.

But Marcus Kane, with his soft, knowing gaze that read her heart like he already knew part of it belonged to him, saw all of this on her face, and spared her.

He walked over to where Bellamy lay, clearly already fearing the worst if the terror on his pale face was anything to go by, and crouched down next to him.

Marcus' words were quiet, but Bellamy's reaction was not. There was such heartbreaking anguish in his voice when he cried out, " _No!_ " and could only repeat that word, moaning it over and over like it was being torn from him. It was all Abby could do to stop the tears that had sprung to her eyes from spilling. If she started crying she would not stop.

Marcus put a hand on Bellamy's trembling shoulder and the boy knocked it away, flinging his arm out wildly. Then the angry accusations started:

"How could you let her go? Why didn't you stop her? You need to go out and find her, Kane! No, _I'll_ find her!"

He struggled to his feet, ripping the IV line out in a spray of blood, staggering and breathing hard through his tears, whilst Marcus and Clarke pleaded with him to stop. Finally Marcus wrapped his arms around him, effectively binding him, and though Bellamy fought against his hold, hit him and cursed him, eventually he dissolved, sobbing and weak.

"She's not dead... She's not dead..." He gasped, and Abby couldn't stand anymore.

The meds had been distributed, and though she felt guilty for leaving Jackson to deal with their patients alone yet _again_ , she had to get out of there. She had to get home where she could be alone and she could let herself give up. Her grief and guilt and fear were like a tidal wave, ready to pull her under and swallow her into the depths. Everyone else was focused on Bellamy, and so she slipped away unnoticed.

The sky was red ( _streaked with blood_ , whispered her mind) as she hurried over to the house, too tired to full out run, though that was what she suddenly wanted to do: run away from it all.

The house was blessedly dark and silent, and Abby didn't even bother to turn on the lights; she didn't need them as she made her way up the stairs and to the bathroom. What she needed was to strip off the clothes that were sweaty and dirty and still carried traces of Lincoln's blood, and scrub herself clean hard enough that maybe she could just wash away the memories as well. Then maybe she wouldn't feel like this anymore, like she was barely holding herself together.

She turned the shower on and the temperature up as hot as she could stand it, and shut herself away from the world. The water felt so good that for a moment Abby's mind went blank and she thought of nothing but the deep satisfaction as it cleansed her skin and the warmth that seeped into her aching muscles. But then the guilt crept back in, because she did not deserve relief. _Lincoln_ deserved to be remembered; his death deserved to be felt.

It all crashed over her then, and she finally let it.

It felt almost as if she'd had the emotional equivalent of a steel rod in her spine, keeping her entire body braced in order to keep herself going, and when she let go, the full force of her emotions and her exhaustion nearly made her legs give way beneath her. Abby gasped and steadied herself against the cold tile wall. The water beat down on her as she began to sob, quietly at first, then gaining in volume as they shook her entire body. The steam enveloped her, like a barrier between her and the real world, like it was swallowing up the sounds tearing from her throat, so Abby did not try to stifle them. It was as if all the grief and pain she had felt since the beginning, since the Turn, was pouring out of her at once, and Abby wept for Lincoln and Octavia, for what Thelonious had put her through and what he'd become, but also for his son, Wells, whose death broke him; for Clarke and the loss of her innocence. And she wept for Marcus, whose heart bled for everyone around him. Who tried and fought so hard to give everyone he cared about some kind of life worth living, and yet didn't think his own life mattered. Who made her feel loved and cherished (even if he'd never said the words, or acted on it) despite her mistakes and being a liability to him. If she could be more like Octavia, if she didn't need other people to constantly defend her, maybe she could have done something to save Lincoln. Maybe Marcus wouldn't feel like he had to constantly protect her.

Soon though, she didn't even have the strength left to cry. She sagged against the wall, sucking in humid air, trying not to collapse, and felt empty. It was a pipe dream, she realised, thinking that they could build a life in this community. It was the same as it had always been: struggling day after day to find more supplies to keep them alive, running out of places to look, trying to keep their wits about them and their heads above water. All they could hope was a quick and merciful death, like Lincoln, rather than being torn apart and eaten alive. It was the only end Abby could see, the only life she could imagine, and hopelessness was like a virus, cold and insidious, weighing her down body and soul.

Abby shivered, despite having stood under the hot water for an indeterminable length of time; this was a different kind of cold that permeated her being, that had everything to do with the sadness and despair she now felt. Perhaps if she could just collapse into bed, surrender to the exhaustion and sleep, she'd somehow be able to wake up and carry on in the morning.

She shut off the water and dried herself off. A week or so ago, whilst he'd been on a run and Abby was missing him, she'd stolen one of Marcus' shirts and worn it to bed, the traces of his scent comforting her and allowing her to sleep for a couple of hours. It was this shirt that she slipped on now, long enough on her to cover the plain cotton panties she wore underneath. She moved in a daze towards her bedroom, and stopped short in the doorway at the sight of Marcus sat on the edge of her bed, elbows braced on his knees, clearly waiting for her.

He looked up at her and the pain in his eyes was like punch to the gut, and as his gaze flickered over her, she wondered what he saw in hers. Were her eyes red from crying? Could he read her misery and defeat in the lines on her face and the set of her shoulders? He said nothing about her chosen attire, though Abby couldn't even summon the energy to be embarrassed. Marcus swallowed,

“You left,” His voice was hoarse, “You were gone suddenly, and I... I was scared.” He shook his head like he thought he was being ridiculous, and just when Abby thought her heart couldn't ache anymore than it already was, just when she thought there were no more tears left in her tonight, they sprung to her eyes again. She'd heard the fear in his voice when he'd spoken of only just getting her back, and she still selfishly slipped away from him whilst that fear was fresh in his mind.

“I'm sorry...” She closed the door behind her and crossed over to sit next to him. She reached out to touch his face, but her hand hovered uncertainly, “I'm so sorry.”

“Abby,” He took her hand; his voice and touch were _so_ gentle, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” There was that pain in his eyes again, “I heard you... in the shower. Abby, let me help you.”

There was no point in trying to hold it together then, not when Marcus had already heard. Abby squeezed her eyes shut as the despair welled up again; she could feel the tears on her face this time, they couldn't be washed away as soon as they fell.

“I'm sorry,” She repeated, and it came out a sob, “I couldn't do anything... I was _useless_. I -” Marcus shushed her then and wrapped his arms around her, and everything in Abby instinctively felt _safe_. She collapsed against his chest, crying into the warm skin of his throat, but still could not stop the words from pouring out, “It shouldn't have been him. It should've been me. He was strong and brave and _good_. He was supposed to live. He was in love.”

Marcus' breath hitched and she realised he was crying quietly too. He shifted and pulled her unresisting body with him, leaning back so they lay on their sides in each other's arms.

“It shouldn't have been either of you, Abby, please don't say that.” He said in a strained whisper, “ _I_ convinced Roan to banish Thelonious instead of killing him.”

“You couldn't have killed him,” Abby murmured in return, reaching around his waist, clutching his t shirt, and burrowing further into the safe cradle of his arms, “That's not who you are.”

Marcus made a noise in his throat, like a bitter, choked off laugh, and she felt him shake his head. For a moment the only sound was their own hitched breathing as they both attempted to stem the flow of tears.

“I know who you are,” Marcus whispered, just as Abby was succumbing to sleep. “You do everything you can and you never give up hope.” He dropped a kiss to the top of her head, “You taught me to hope.”

Abby fell asleep surrounded by Marcus Kane's unwavering faith and love.

 

* * *

 

Marcus woke slowly to the feeling of gentle fingers combing through his hair and the steady beat of a heart beneath his ear. The hazy light that greeted him in the room when he cracked an eye open told him it was still very early. Last night they had fallen asleep together with him cradling Abby, but somehow during the night their positions seemed to have reversed. He was curled up along her side, with a leg slung over both of hers, an arm around her stomach whilst hers wrapped around his shoulders, head pillowed on her chest... And his morning erection pressing firmly into her hip.

Perhaps he should have felt awkward, but Abby was clearly awake and it didn't seem to bother her as she continued to stroke his hair, and Marcus' sleepy, content brain didn't want to move from her arms. Instead he inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent, and turned his face to nuzzle into her bare skin, placing a kiss right over her heart.

There was a small gasp above his head and her hands stalled but stayed where they were, and when Marcus craned his neck to look up at her, Abby was gazing down at him with something impossibly aching and tender in her eyes. She looked at Marcus as though he had answered a question she hadn't even voiced aloud.

They stared at each other, and there was no denying the weight of the moment, but Marcus wasn't positive of what it meant until Abby finally broke the silence:

"I love you."

Marcus had known, had understood, that those three words had the power to completely change a person's world, but he had never felt it himself until then. Time stopped and nothing existed outside of this room, this bed, this woman. He was struck dumb by overwhelming love and awe and disbelief; he never truly thought that this was something he could have. The idea that the depths of Abby's feelings matched his own was a dream, a vain hope that he only let himself dwell on when he lay awake and alone in the dead of night.

Abby was not discouraged by his silence. Her eyes flickered over his face as he stared at her, and whatever she saw there was apparently enough reassurance because she smiled with patient affection, and suddenly Marcus could not go another second without kissing her. He raised himself up onto his forearms, braced on either side of her head, hovering over her and pressing their chests flush together. Abby's hands, that had not moved from where they were buried in his hair, now slid down to cup his face, and Marcus let her draw him down.

A little moan escaped her as their lips finally, _finally_  met, and any remaining doubts that he had were banished, replaced by amazement (and arousal) that he could draw that sound from her. As she sipped sweetly at his mouth and they angled their heads to deepen the kiss, Marcus wondered what other noises he could elicit. More than anything, he still couldn't believe that this was really happening; that Abby Griffin was beneath him, kissing him like she never wanted to stop, slipping her tongue into his mouth to learn his taste, hands wandering, caressing, everywhere within reach.

Marcus had never felt anything like this; the pure want and passion coursing through him that demanded to be satisfied. He had never kissed someone with such fervour and heat that just kept building and building into an inferno. He would happily be consumed by it, by how much Abby wanted him, her fire matching his own in intensity.

She pushed her body up against his and shifted around until she was cradling his hips between her thighs, and Marcus had forgotten until this precise moment that she only wore one of his shirts and her underwear. He groaned into her mouth, unable to stop himself from thrusting against her heat, the two of them separated only by two thin layers of fabric (Too many clothes, too many barriers...)

Marcus rocked his hips again and revelled in the gasp that escaped her, breaking their kiss, and he pulled back in order to look at her. What he saw nearly undid him.

Abby's eyes were dark, pupils blown huge and heavy lidded with desire as she gazed up at him; her hair was fanned out over the pillow in a mess of honey waves. A rosy flush spread over her heaving chest and up her neck to her cheeks, her lips kiss swollen and red from beard burn. She looked debauched, and _Marcus_ had done that to her

"Abby..." He could barely think beyond her name, his heart beat to the sound of it; every single one of his senses was overwhelmed with the essence of her. "Abby, you... You're so..." He couldn't grasp adequate words for how he felt about her, what this moment meant to him. "I love you," He said anyway, even though it wasn't enough, but the smile that lit up her face, the way her eyes shone with joy and adoration, told him she understood.

When he leaned down to kiss her this time it was slow and reverent. Marcus savoured her taste and she opened up to him eagerly, deepening the kiss and sucking on his bottom lip. Marcus groaned, bucking his hips again in response, and felt Abby's hands at his waist, trying to tug his shirt up.

"Wait," He broke the kiss and Abby made an adorable noise of frustration, "Are you sure?" He felt faintly ridiculous for asking, given that he was grinding against her uncontrollably like a teenage boy, and Abby raised an eyebrow as if she agreed with this assessment.

"I think we've waited long enough, don't you think?" She kept tugging at his t shirt, and this time Marcus let her, raising his arms for her to divest him of it. She ran her hands over newly exposed skin, taking him in with dark, appreciative eyes. "I want to feel you, Marcus."

He shuddered; her words and touch were driving him crazy. He wanted to feel her too, against him and around him as he plunged deep inside her. He wanted to taste every inch of her and map her skin with his lips and tongue...

He'd wanted it for so long, and now he had permission to do it.

Marcus burrowed into her neck, ravishing her with hungry, wet kisses, as his shaking hands fumbled to undo the buttons on her shirt. _His_ shirt, he remembered, with a stab of possessive lust; she was wearing _his_ clothes. It had taken all of his self control to not react to that the night before, but it still felt as though Abby had marked himself as his somehow. Now he erased all doubt, nipping and sucking at the pale skin of her throat in a way that would definitely leave bruises, whilst Abby let out high, gasping sighs and hitched a slim, toned thigh higher over his hip.

Marcus parted her shirt and watched a blush travel over miles of creamy skin, the swell of her breasts, nipples hardening further under his intense gaze. He dove in hungrily, suckling at one of the rosy peaks and Abby cried out, her whole body arching into his mouth. He ran his fingers over her other breast, teasing, pinching, and dropped open mouthed kisses over her chest, laving his tongue over the redness his beard left behind. Abby's fingers were tangled in his hair, her sighs and moans of pleasure like music to his ears. The way she said his name, on a cry, or low and throaty, was stirring a molten heat in his belly.

Then he moved lower still and her stomach muscles quivered beneath his lips. He traced the sharp juts of her hip bones and nuzzled at the softness of her lower belly, reaching the waistband of her underwear. The thin cotton was already soaked through - all because of _him_ \- and the scent of her arousal hit him, sharp and heady. He mouthed at her through the fabric, smiling when her legs fell further open and her hips jerked upwards. seeking more.

"Marcus..." She gasped, and he looked up the planes of her body to meet her burning gaze; she was biting her lip in anticipation. "Marcus, please..."

Encouraged, he hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband and dragged her underwear down her legs, settling down between them once more, staring down at her pink, glistening folds, the pearl of her clit: _beautiful_. He parted her with shaking fingers and drew his tongue in one long, hard lick from her entrance to her clit. Her hips hitched again and above his head, Abby moaned, her hands still stroking his hair.

Marcus wanted to tease her, draw it out, but he also wanted to dive right in and devour her like a starving man; drive her insane with pleasure until every painful thought from the night before was driven from her mind. The latter urge won out - they would have time to go slow later - and he sank his mouth deep into her hot, swollen flesh. He lapped and sucked messily, swirling his tongue through her folds and flicking the hard bud of her clit, revelling in her cries as she writhed beneath him.

"Marcus... Marcus!" Her hips were moving against his face, her hands alternating between clutching at his head and the bed sheets. Marcus hummed in response and encouragement; he could feel the tension rising in her body, hear it in the high breathy gasps (" _Yes, yes. yes!_ ") He slipped one, then two fingers inside her, groaning at the feel of her heat surrounding them, imagining how she would feel around his cock, and he couldn't help thrusting against the mattress, aching for relief. He crooked his fingers forward, suckled hard on her clit, and Abby came on a cry, her body quaking with wave after wave of pleasure.

He kept going, gentling his movements to slow licks and delicate kisses, until Abby came down, panting and reaching for him,

"Honey, come here." Marcus crawled up her body and Abby dragged him into a hot, messy kiss, all open mouths and languid tongues, lapping up her own wetness that coated his lips and beard, “Mmm,” She hummed, “You're good at that.” Marcus was pretty sure that it was all down his enthusiasm and desire to give Abby pleasure, his growing addiction to the taste of her, rather than any actual skill, but he wasn't about to argue.

Abby broke the kiss, cupping his face and stroking his beard; she had a wicked glint in her eye, “Your turn.”

And with that, catching him off guard, she pushed him over onto his back and climbed on top of him before he could register what had happened. She grinned down at him, straddling his hips, bearing down on his still clothed, raging erection and looking positively radiant. This, Marcus thought, was a view he could never possibly tire of: Abby naked, flushed and wanting him, her hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts in messy curls. Without another word, she rose up onto her knees and popped the button on his jeans, drawing the zipper down and relieving the pressure on the hardness beneath. Marcus couldn't help moaning a little in relief when she pulled his underwear down too freeing his cock as it strained upwards towards his belly.

Together they worked his clothing down his legs until Marcus could kick it off, and then there was nothing but skin on skin; no more barriers keeping them apart.

Abby took him in her small, deft hand and stroked him leisurely, learning the feel of him, and already her touch was enough to make him shudder. They locked gazes as Abby positioned herself over him, two minds sharing one single thought: _no more waiting._ She sank down onto him slowly, tight, wet heat enveloping him as Marcus groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to control himself. It seemed like nothing had ever felt as good, or as _right_ , as being inside Abby.

Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, smiling and letting out a satisfied sigh as she rocked her hips experimentally. Tendrils of heat were slowly spreading from his groin as she teased him with slow, precise movements, leaning forward and bracing her hands on his chest, whilst Marcus rested his own on her hips, tracing circles with his thumbs, guiding but letting her set the pace. Until he could no longer help himself. He let out a growl, planted his feet and gripped her harder as he drove up into her heat, burying himself to the hilt and startling a gasp from her.

Wide, dark eyes met his own, and then all semblance of control seemed to snap. Abby began riding him earnestly and Marcus met her thrust for thrust, their hips rising and falling together, finding their rhythm. She leaned down just as he surged up, capturing her mouth in a passionate kiss, her hair falling in a silky curtain around them.

The pressure was building inside him now, pleasure like a racing current under his skin, edging towards the point of no return...

"Abby, _wait_ ," He gasped, though it took every last shred of willpower.

"It's okay," She kept grinding on his cock relentlessly, "It's okay, I want you to come inside me."

"We can't..." He managed to still her hips, his whole body trembling, screaming at him for denying himself release. The only thing he cared more about in that moment was her safety. "We can't risk it."

She sighed in disappointment, kissing him as she lifted herself off of him, and a whimper escaped his throat at the loss. His cock lay heavy, red and throbbing against his belly, glistening with her wetness. But then Abby smiled that same wicked smile, lined them up and started sliding along the length of him.

" _Fuck_ , Abby!" Marcus gasped, hoarsely, clutching at her and looking down to see his cock slipping back and forth through her slick folds. Abby replied with her own hum of pleasure, her breath hitching at the pressure and friction against her clit.

He could feel it building in the base of his spine, and this time there was no stopping it. White hot pleasure was swelling up and consuming him as all of his muscles contracted and Abby sped up until, with an agonised groan, his orgasm crashed through him, knocking the breath out of him, his cock jerking and spilling over his stomach. The world was a haze of pleasure and Abby, who he noticed was watching him intently as she rubbed frantic circles over her sensitive clit until she was shuddering and crying out too, collapsing forward into his arms.

They lay there, sated and content, trying to catch their breath. Marcus grimaced at the mess on his stomach, though Abby didn't seem to care, and grasped blindly for his t shirt until he found it and used it to clean himself. Abby nuzzled into his neck, and his heart felt achingly full of love and gratitude. Marcus ran his fingers through her hair and cradled her closer.

"Condoms," She muttered sleepily, and he snorted.

"Yeah, we'll put them on the list."

"Mmm, maybe just on our personal list?"

"Good idea." That wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with the kids.

She stirred a little and frowned, "What time is it?"

The sun was barely up; she needed the rest, Marcus thought, and he really didn't want to leave this bed and face the outside world just yet.

"Still early," He kissed her forehead, "Sleep, Abby."

So, with a happy little sigh, she did, and Marcus quickly followed her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter can be found here: http://skaihefamarcus.tumblr.com/post/165118171294/art-for-the-upcoming-chapter-of-the-next-world-a


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